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ETHEL HAMILTON; 


OR, 


Lights and Shadows of the War 
of Independence. 


BY 

ANNA T. SADLIER. 





D. & J. Sadlier & Co., 31 Barcl.ay Street. 

MONTREAL; 275 NOTRE DAME ST. 


1877. 

r 



Copyright ; 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO^ 

1877- 


Ethel Hamilton; 

OR, 

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE 
WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 


A CENTURY ago there stood, far from 
the busy haunts of men, a quaint and pri- 
mitive village, whose principal street was 
bordered on either side by rows of tall and 
widely-spreading trees, which, in the gay 
spring-time, cast on the well-trodden paths 
and grassy margins, thick showers of snowy 
hawthorn-blossoms. Afar in the winding 
paths and less inhabited portions of the 
place, the roadsides and hedges were redo- 
lent with the wild sweet-brier, and adorn- 
ed with the blushing eglantine. From 
out the meadows and green pasture-lands 
peeped crocuses, and the blue gentian-bells 
and the meek-eyed daisies, miniature stars 

in an earthly firmament ; and bird-notes of 
9 


10 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


the forest songsters thrilled and rippled 
through the branches, where, low-bending 
till they swept the mossy pathway, bowed 
the graceful trees at the light touch of the 
freshening breezes. In the shadiest part 
of the highroad, where the bars of sunny 
light played through the cool, green foli- 
age, stood a low and quaint old farm- 
house, built in the fashion of the times. 
From its great chimney rose, morning and 
evening, the smoke of its glowing kitchen 
fire, where, in the cold, drear winter nights, 
around the blazing embers of the home- 
hearth, gathered young and old in cheer- 
ful companionship. Adjoining was the 
well-stocked barn, wherein the sun-dried 
hay lay in great soft piles which tempted 
weary childhood to repose in their depths. 
Great stores of grain, the garnered harvest 
of the golden year, lay within, and below, 
well fed and snugly housed, the contented 
cattle passed their uneventful years. Near 
by was the hen-house, with its feathered 
and clattering inmates, the pride and joy of 
the housewife’s heart ; and to or from the 
verdant pasture, at morn and evening, the 
placid sheep and lambs passed meekly at 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 


II 


the shepherd’s will. In the orchard, the 
glittering apple-blossoms gave promise of 
the golden pippins which would crown the 
matured year, and cherry, plum, and pear 
trees hinted at summer fruits or winter 
stores of carefully-preserved dainties for 
the young folk. 

Quiet and peace reigned there. At 
evening, when “ the heat and burden of the 
day” had fallen from off the tired workers, 
they sat underneath the trees’ cool sha- 
dow; or, when evening had slowly given 
place to the silent night, they assembled 
within the little parlor, where the farmer’s 
wife, with low and reverent voice, gave 
out the decades of the Rosary, which 
mingled with the perfume of the spring- 
time now abroad, and with the noise and 
hum of insect life. The rude laborers 
joined with their employers, and in harsh 
and unmelodious accents responded to the 
familiar words of the Hail Mary. Before 
the image of the Blessed Mother, loving 
hands placed daily offerings from the gar- 
den or the meadows, the lowly crocuses 
and bluebells; even the starry daisies and 
the blossoms from the apple and the haw- 


12 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


thorn stood in great bunches at the feet 
of the Madonna. 

At the further end of the road stood an 
humble house of prayer, a small frame 
building, where on Sundays, week about 
with some neighboring settlement on his 
mission, the good, hard-working priest came 
to offer up the sublime Sacrifice, and speak 
in few but earnest, soul-stirring words to 
the humble parishioners, who heard with 
unquestioning reverence the great truths 
which, mighty and grand in their signifi- 
cance, are yet adapted by Him who gave 
them to the comprehension of the meek 
and lowly. Beside it stood the modest 
graveyard, enclosed from the road by a 
rough wooden paling, where lay the few 
who, in the short years of the colony’s ex- 
istence, had gone to rest from their hard 
pioneer labors, far from the distant homes 
beyond the sea which they had left with 
aching hearts and tear-dimmed eyes, and 
yearned for during the brief years of exile. 
The great waters had borne them swiftly 
and unerringly to this alien shore, on which 
they were to find a refuge and a grave 
beside the temple where, in that tranquil- 


' THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 1 3 

lity denied to them at home, they had been 
free to worship God. 

There was but little communication be- 
tween the village and the larger towns 
and cities. About once a fortnight, indeed, 
the lumbering old stage-coach rolled along 
the highway to the inn door, bearing its 
budget of current intelligence, or occasion- 
ally setting down a passing traveller. 

One evening in the early May of the 
year which preceded the great struggle 
for independence, but which witnessed its 
first battles, Farmer Morris sat at his door 
enjoying a smoke, while from within came 
the sound of the household duties, where 
his wife bustled round, stirring the slow 
handmaidens in their preparation for the 
evening meal. 

At the gate, leaning over its bars, with 
a certain careless rustic grace, was a young 
girl whose age might be from eighteen to 
twenty. She was the beauty of the vil- 
lage, the admired of all observers, and was 
truly passing fair with the evening light 
upon her. Her hair, in the gleam of the set- 
ting sun, seemed of a reddish bronze, and 
the scarlet ribbon which tied it back and 


14 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

finished the dimity ruffling at her throat 
seemed to increase the brightness of her 
great, dark eyes. Her spotted calico dress 
was arranged with much neatness and 
considerable taste, and with it she wore a 
coquettish little apron, fastened at the cor- 
ners with bows of the same warm hue. 
Near her stood a coarse, clumsy-looking 
girl, who, in form and feature, offered a 
marked contrast. Her face was plain, and 
would have been almost revolting in its 
ugliness, but for its mingled expression of 
shrewdness and good-humor. She had 
fine, dark eyes like her sister’s, but the clear 
brown of the latter’s complexion became 
in her so swarthy that it almost approach- 
ed the color of an Indian. Her pink ging- 
ham dress was less tastefully arranged, and 
her thick, coarse black hair was drawn 
tightly back as if in scorn, and fastened 
with a comb at the back of her head. 

As the rumbling of wheels was heard, 
the girls leaned forward eagerly to see 
the inside of the coach, which seemed un- 
usually crowded. 

“ This is the place, I believe, Sydney,” 
said a low, soft voice from within, as the 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 


15 


coach stopped before the gate, at which a 
tall young man, mounted on the front be- 
side the driver, and wearing the undress 
uniform of one of her Majesty’s infantry 
regiments, sprang lightly to the ground. 

“And, by Jove! Ethel, quite a tableau 
at the gate.” 

“ Picturesque, is it not ? ” she said, smil- 
ing. 

“ Beauty and the Beast, Faith and De- 
spair, or that sort of thing,” he w'ent on. 
“ An Arcadian beauty, and — ” 

“ Hush, Sydney ! they can hear you,” 
said his sister. 

“ This is Farmer Morris’s place, is it 
not ? ” she enquired in the low tone which 
seemed habitual to her. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” said Mary, courtesying ; 
“ and you, I reckon, are the lady we ex- 
pected from the town.” 

“ Yes, I am the lady,” said Miss Ham- 
ilton, smiling at the girl’s important air. 
“ Sydney, you will attend to the trunks, 
will you not ? ” And handing her satchel 
and shawls to Susan, who stood waiting to 
receive them, she followed her up to the 
house. 


l6 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

“ You are welcome, miss,” said .portly 
Mrs. Morris, receiving the young stranger 
at the door. “ I hope the air of the place 
will bring roses into your white face.” 

“ The wish is good, at all events,” said 
Miss Hamilton, somewhat amused ; “ and 
I really hope the rest and quiet of the 
place will be of advantage to me. You 
are charmingly situated here.” 

Yes, the place is very well, miss, but I 
hope we will be able to make you comfort- 
able ; for, after all, there’s a great stretch 
between this and where you came from.” 

“You will not find me very hard to 
please, I think,” said Miss Hamilton, al- 
ready prepossessed in favor of her hostess, 
and delighted with the surroundings. 

Mary had followed her into the kitchen, 
examining every detail of the young stran- 
ger’s costume — the plain, dark, tight-fit- 
ting dress, a simple linen collar, and mixed 
straw bonnet, which but half concealed the 
bright golden hair gathered in luxuriant 
clusters at the back of her head. Her eyes 
were between a dark gray and hazel, shad- 
ed by long, curling lashes and straight, 
level eyebrows. It was a remarkable face, 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 17 

which, once seen, would not easily be 
forgotten — suggesting that its possessor 
might be a firm and loyal friend or an un- 
compromising though generous enemy. 

She passed into the house, and followed 
Susan up the narrow stairs to the low-ceil- 
ed, flower-scented room, conspicuous for its 
perfect neatness, whose sole ornament was 
the pictured face of the Mater Dolorosa, 
before which, on a small, white covered 
table, stood the cluster of flowers whose 

appealing sweetness ” had stolen out into 
the hall and down the dingy stairway. 

Through the high, narrow little window 
a tall hawthorn was thrusting its obtrusive 
boughs into the room, and shedding its 
pretty blossoms over the sill and on to the 
well-swept floor, covered at intervals with 
long strips of home-woven rag-carpet. The 
bed bore the many-colored mosaic often 
exhibited to the neighboring housewives 
as the best-patched quilt, a sort of monu- 
ment to the taste and industry of its pos- 
sessors. Through the branches of the tree 
the reddish gold of the declining sun was 
darting into the room, adding a certain 
charm to its homely appurtenances. 


1 8 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

Miss Hamilton had dismissed her Eng- 
lish maid before leaving Boston, as the lat- 
ter had expressed a strong desire to return 
to her home and kindred. Ethel rightly 
judged that she might find her a worse 
than useless encumbrance, and had ever 
since been filling the unaccustomed office 
of her own maid. Susan stood awkwardly 
by, while Miss Hamilton removed her hat 
and gloves, and put to her a few kind en- 
quiries, through which she succeeded in 
eliciting little more than the name and age 
of her informant ; then she dismissed her 
gently, and told her she would call if she 
required her service. 

Red and embarrassed from the stranger’s 
notice, Susan almost stumbled into the 
young man’s arms as Sydney Hamilton 
came bounding lightly up. 

» ‘‘Halloo, Topsy!” said he, as he put 
her steady on her feet. “ Almost lost your 
balance, didn’t you? Why, you might 
have spoiled your pretty face but for my 
timely appearance.” 

Susan, who was especially sensitive on 
the subject of her homeliness, hung down 
her head with a pained look that some- 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. I9 


times came into her heavy face. Sydney 
was a good-natured fellow, and, half-re- 
penting what he had said, he went on : 
“Never mind, Topsy ; handsome is that 
handsome does. Take this and buy a rib- 
bon to brighten yourself up.” Then he 
continued his rapid ascent, leaving the girl 
staring open-mouthed at the bright silver 
coin which lay in her hand. He tapped 
at his sister’s door. 

“Is that you, Sydney?” called she from 
inside. “ I am dressing, but I shall not be 
long.” 

“All right, no hurry. I’m off to recon- 
noitre my quarters.” 

The room adjoining hers had been as- 
signed to him. Its window commanded 
a view of the long, shady street, with 
many a gnarled and crooked oak, here 
and there a white or red painted farm- 
house, the swinging sign of the village 
inn, and the cross surmounting the modest 
place of worship. He stood for a few mo- 
ments looking out, and twirling his brown 
moustache thoughtfully. “ What a queer 
dead-and-alive sort of place it is ! ” he re- 
flected. “ Imagine a man turned farmer. 


20 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


and mooning and dreaming, or toiling and 
drudging, his life away. No ; for me. 
Viva the world and the camp ! ” 

After making some improvement in his 
toilet, and carefully brushing the dust 
from his elegantly-fitting undress uniform, 
he went down-stairs, and sauntered lazily 
on, from the flower-covered porch down 
the green path to the orchard. There he 
perceived Mary making wreaths and fa- 
vors of the white blossoms. 

“ There is the rustic beauty,” he said to 
himself; “ and, upon my honor, she has a 
charming face.” 

He came up to her, and, unceremoni- 
ously seating himself on the bench beside 
her, entered into conversation, regarding 
her the while with careless admiration. 

“ Is this where I find you ? ” said Ethel, 
advancing, and suppressing an involun- 
tary smile, as she perceived her brother, 
as usual, in the vicinity of a pretty face. 
She shook her head gravely, and he, with 
a gleam of mirth in his merry, dark eyes as 
he noticed her reproachful air, said coolly : 

“Admiring nature and nature’s beau- 
ties.” 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 


21 


*‘So I see,” she said pointedly; “ of the 
latter you are usually almost too ardent 
an admirer.” 

Meanwhile, Mary had arisen, and, let- 
ting the white blossoms fall in a snowy 
shower from her dainty apron, she turned 
towards the house. 

“ Are you off, Blossom ? ’* he said lightly. 
“ Good-by, pretty one.” 

“Sydney,’ said Ethel gravely; “this is 
not right.” 

“ Why, pet,” said he, “ a frown on your 
little face, which in its matchless fairness 
reminds one of a lily, especially in con- 
trast with our nut-brown maid : ” 

“ I am in earnest, dear,^’ said Ethel 
with her pretty gravity. “ You should 
not amuse yourself with that child. Her 
head is already turned with vanity, and 
even the most commonplace admiration 
from a man like you will not tend to 
restore its balance.” 

“ You are too severe, little sister,” he an- 
swered good-humoredly. “ What possible 
harm can there be in admiring a pretty 
face?” 

“ Admire at a distance, then,” said she ; 


22 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


“ for it is the fact of her beauty which makes 
your meaningless compliments dangerous.” 

“Just to please you, then,” he replied, 
“ I will bestow my meaningless compli- 
ments on her sister, who certainly cannot 
excite your apprehensions on the score of 
beauty.” 

“ Jesting apart, Sydney, remember that 
circumstances alter cases, and this is really 
very wrong, or at least imprudent.” 

“ I will be prudence itself, and the best 
of good boys, stern little Mentor. But 
how do you like your rural retreat? Quiet 
enough, I hope ? ” 

“ Not too much so for me ; and as for the 
trees and grass and flowers, I am perfectly 
delighted with them.” 

“ Chacun h son gouty' said he with a slight 
shrug. “ However, I need not complain, 
as I shall have to leave here in less than a 
week.” 

“So soon, Sydney?” she said sadly. 
“ What am I to do without you ? ” 

“ And I without you, pet, to keep me in 
order and frighten me away from pretty 
girls,” laying his hand, as he spoke, caress- 
ingly on her curls. 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 23 

He was handsome and very manly. His 
hair and beard were a perfect chestnut 
brown ; his eyes dark, and, like his sister’s, 
deeply fringed. They were honest, truth- 
ful eyes, gleaming and dancing with merri- 
ment. There was a certain boyishness 
about him, too, though he was six years 
older than the grave little maiden at his 
side, and in spite of the muscular, well-knit 
figure, combining strength and elegance. 

They were orphans, and only the year 
before Ethel, having attained her twentyr 
first year, and being freed from the control 
of her guardian, had, when Sydney’s regi- 
ment was ordered out, resolved to follow 
her brother’s fortunes to the new and un- 
known settlements of the English colonies 
in America. The skirmishes at Lexington 
and Concord had taken place, and there 
were indications of serious trouble among 
the discontented colonists. The days for 
the free exercise of British tyranny were 
nearly numbered, but the officers of His 
Majesty’s service saw fit to laugh at the 
puny efforts of the handful of men which, 
at best, the colonies could put forth. 

Do you think this trouble among the 


24 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


colonists is likely to continue ? ” asked 
Ethel anxiously. 

“ It is hard to say, my dear/ returned 
her brother ; “ but I think there is very 
little to be feared in that quarter, except a 
few shots fired once and awhile into an 
unruly mob, to frighten them into subjec- 
tion.” 

“ I am not of your opinion,” said Ethel. 
“ Shortly before we left Boston, I heard 
one day, by the merest accident, a man — a 
gentleman evidently — addressing a knot of 
citizens. He was speaking of patriotism, 
and urging upon them that, with one heart 
and one deep, inspiring love of country, 
they must all unite unto death to resist 
Avrong and oppression.’* 

“ Mere talk, dear child,” said Sydney. 
“ What could a handful of men like these 
colonists accomplish ? They talk a great 
deal, but action is impossible.” 

“ I tell you, dear,” persisted Ethel, “ I 
have never forgotten that man’s face, nor 
how those around him listened with spark- 
ling eyes and flushed faces, and grasped 
his hand like men who were already pledg- 
ing themselves to high endeavor.” 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 


“ They may have the will,” said Sydney, 
** but they are powerless.” 

“ Yet the time may come, Sydney, when 
you will be forced to acknowledge that a 
woman’s perception saw clearly what man’s 
strong judgment overlooked or under- 
rated.” 

“ Meantime, little prophetess, keep up 
your spirits, and do not let these goblins 
of colonists terrify your poor little heart.” 

“ For myself I have no fear,” said Ethel ; 
“ but for you, my brother, who can tell 
what the future may bring forth ?” 

And at the worst, little sweetness,” he 
said tenderly, “ would you begrudge me 
my first chance for fame ? ” 

“ Think at what a cost,” she answered, 
the tears rushing impetuously to her eyes. 

“ Remember, dear, your brother is a sol- 
dier, though hitherto but one in name ; 
and think of the deathless laurels which 
may be snatched from the cannon’s fiery 
mouth. Ethel, my sister, you cannot tell 
how I have longed for this first lesson in 
the stormy trade of war.” 

He stood before her, handsome and 
manly, with the light of noble, heroic feel- 


26 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


mg giving a deeper, finer meaning to the 
mirthful eyes. 

But you will persist in taking a gloomy 
view of matters, when you will probably 
see me, a quarter of a century from now, a 
crippled, hobbling half-pay officer, grum- 
bling and growling at his ill-luck.” 

It struck her as he said it that she 
could never picture him to herself in any 
possible future as other than the gay, 
light-hearted, handsome young soldier who 
stood before her. 

Here comes the charming Topsy to 
call us to our tea, I suppose,” he said 
gayly. 

“How can you, Sydney?” said Ethel. 
“ The girl has really a good face, if not 
a pretty one.” 

“ Tea is ready, ma’am,” said Susan, 
reddening as usual, and hastening back 
towards the house. 

“ What’s your hurry, Topsy? ” said the 
young man, leaving his sister’s side, and, 
with a few quick steps, catching up with 
the embarrassed girl. “ Why, you fly with 
the dragon’s speed. Try and accommo- 
date your pace to mine.” 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 2/ 


‘‘ Sydney,” said his sister, coming up, 
“ do not tease the poor girl so. I declare, 
you are positively cruel.” 

“ Topsy don’t mind it — do you, my 
young friend ? She and I are on splendid 
terms, and before my leave is out will be 
quite confidential. You see,” he added 
in a low tone, with rather a wry face, “ I 
am cultivating goodness in preference to 
beauty. You have no objection, I hope?” 

“ Only that you make the poor child 
cry.” 

“ Not a bit of it,” said he ; “I think 
she rather enjoys it.” 

The table was set out in the little sit- 
ting-room, and, as they entered, it offered 
a pleasant picture : the dishes piled with 
the bright red berries in their own green 
leaves, served with thick, foamy cream ; 
heaps of golden brown sponge-cake stood 
temptingly by ; with cold meats, fresh, 
fluffy rolls, and the delicious butter — Mrs. 
Morris’s favorite boast — the whole crown- 
ed with the steaming tea-urn, behind which 
the worthy matron’s benevolent face seem- 
ed to glow and expand in its cheerful heat. 
The two girls were seated at the table, 


28 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


and a young man who strikingly resem- 
bled them both — Susan’s swarthy com- 
plexion, Mary’s bronze-brown hair, the 
fine eyes which were common to the whole 
family, and a firm-set mouth, above which 
the down of manhood was but just ap- 
parent. At the lower end of the table 
Farmer Morris, with iron-gray hair, florid 
complexion, and deeply-furrowed brow, 
presided. 

“You see we have brought you in to 
eat with ourselves this first evening,” said 
Mrs. Morris; “but hereafter, if you wish, 
your meals can be set separate.” 

“ Better as it is,” said Sydney in his 
cheery way ; “ man is a social animal, and 
enjoys the society of his fellows.” 

“ I beg of you make no change for us,” 
said Ethel ; “ my brother will only remain 
a few days, and I would find my solitary 
meals rather cheerless.” 

“ How do you find the place? ” said the 
farmer with his hearty but unpolished at- 
tempts at conversation. 

“ My sister is charmed with it,” replied 
the young man — “ fairly bewitched, I 
should say.” 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 29 

“ I am glad to hear it, miss,” said he, 
addressing Ethel ; “ I hope you will get to 
like it even better when you see more 
of it.” 

The two girls, as was to be expected, 
maintained an awkward silence. Their 
brother, with something closely resembling 
a scowl, glanced^ askance at the British 
uniform, and did not join in the conversa- 
tion, which was therefore principally be- 
tween the elder people and their guests. 
Sydney, indeed, made one or two good- 
natured attempts to draw the others into 
the discourse, but they were unavailing. 

A day or two after, strolling idly round 
the village, Sydney came across poor Su- 
san, sitting disconsolately by the roadside, 
sobbing bitterly. 

“By Jove! Topsy, what is the mean- 
ing of this ? ” said he, stopping abruptly 
in great surprise. 

She ceased crying, but made no reply. 

“ Come, tell me,” said he. “ I am neither 
an ogre nor a grizzly bear.” 

He drew from her, by slow degrees, that 
she had lost a ten-dollar gold piece, which 
was coming to her mother from the sale 


30 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


of fruit and vegetables, and was conse- 
quently afraid to go home. 

“ So that is the trouble,” said he medi- 
tatively. “Well, upon my honor, I have 
not so many of them myself, but here goes 
for one less,” pouring out in his hand seve- 
ral pieces of gold and silver coin from a 
knitted silken purse, the gift of some half- 
forgotten sweetheart. 

“ Dry your eyes,” said he, “ and run 
home with this; but not a word to any 
one.” 

He walked on, leaving her utterly stupe- 
fied, looking alternately at the coin and 
after his retreating figure. With a sudden 
impulse she ran after him. 

“ Well, what now ? ” he said, turning im- 
patiently. 

“ O sir ! you are too good, and indeed, 
indeed I cannot take this.” 

“ Keep it you must,” he said, much an- 
noyed, “ for I certainly shall not take it 
back ; but for mercy’s sake let me hear no 
more of it.” 

“ I will never forget j^our goodness, sir,” 
she said earnestly, with two bright tears 
of gratitude standing in her honest eyes. 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 3 1 


Not many have been kind to me, and I 
can only give you my poor thanks.” 

“ It is only a trifle,” he said in his care- 
less way — “ not worth mentioning.” 

He continued his walk, his military un- 
dress cap pushed far back on his head, his 
cane swinging by his side, and relentlessly 
beheading the flowers or stripping the blos- 
soming branches as he passed under the 
low-bending trees, along the cool, green 
pathway, whistling a little love-tune which 
had stuck in his memory. 

“ There goes the pretty one,” he said to 
himself a few moments after, as he saun- 
tered up the village street. “ I wonder if 
I shall exert myself enough to walk home 
with her? No, upon my honor, I will 
not,” with sudden resolve ; “ there are 
talkers here as well as everywhere else, I 
suppose, and Ethel is right. I must not 
turn the little creature’s head.” 

With which wise determination still up- 
permost in his mind, he reached the farm, 
and, passing through the orchard, found 
Mary again in her favorite place, occupied 
with some needlework or knitting, he 
could not tell which ; but what he did 


32 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


know was that she was marvellously fair 
amid the cool, green shadows and the 
bright sunlight, which framed her in a 
picture of mingled light and sombre color- 
ing. 

“ She is lovely,” he thought as he ap- 
proached ; “ I have seldom seen a more 
perfect face.” 

“ Blossom ” — he called her so from find- 
ing her so constantly among the blossoms 
— “ you are certainly a witch, and have al- 
most stolen my heart. Do you know what 
an enchanting picture you make, with that 
great old tree for a background?” 

“ You are laughing at me, sir,” she said, 
blushing and simpering. 

“ Not I, i’ faith,” he said, completely 
forgetting his good resolutions of the pre- 
vious moment, and throwing himself care- 
lessly on the grass. “ I am merely admir- 
ing you, and the tree, and the place 
around you, which are all exquisitely 
pretty. Why, your hair and eyes would 
make your fortune anywhere, and break 
a score of hearts, if fate had only made 
you a fine lady. However,” added he, as 
he observed her deep sigh— -for, indeed, 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 


this was one of the girl’s grievances, one 
of her ambitious dreams, over which she 
had brooded and pined in her low, white- 
washed room in the old farm-house — “ you 
are happier as you are ; better and hap- 
pier, believe me.” 

In spite of Ethel’s warnings, Sydney 
never realized the evil his inconsiderate 
praise and thoughtless admiration might 
work in the girl's narrow and undisciplined 
nature. He was one of those who pass 
through life bright, winning, and beloved, 
seizing the ripe golden fruit which the pre- 
sent moment offered to his grasp, nor 
pausing to reflect, until the pleasant path- 
way had passed from out the radiant sun- 
light into the deepening shadow. 

Knowing his unreflecting nature, Ethel 
felt a sense of relief mingling with her 
grief when, at the expiration of his leave, 
he bade her farewell so fondly and tender- 
ly. This solemn trust which his dying 
mother had given him, of the little bright- 
haired sister who had so persistently 
shared his lot, he had never betrayed. 
He had loved her and cared for her with 
deep affection, and she, at least, had never 


34 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


suffered from his thoughtless and way- 
ward character. 

“ Do not forget your reckless brother in 
your prayers, little sister. He may have 
need of them.” Then he added, with a 
half-sigh, looking down upon her: “ Your 
lily-white face recalls another across the 
water, which, perhaps, I shall never see 
again. Keep a good heart, though, dear 
one, and look forward to our joyful meet- 
ing. But if anything should happen, can 
you not console yourself with the glory 
which surrounds a soldier’s death?” 

“ Glory dearly purchased, my brother,” 
she answered, with fast falling tears, “ and 
of which we women take but little note 
when the breaking of our heart’s dearest 
ties accompany it.” 

“ I believe you would have one turn de- 
serter; so before you make a coward of 
me, I shall be off.” 

She followed him out on to the vine- 
covered porch, where the good people of 
the farm had assembled to wish him God- 
speed ; for he had won all hearts by his 
soldierly frankness and unstudied kindli- 
ness. There was but one exception — the 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 35 


dark-browed son of the house, who could 
not forgive the stranger his uniform. 
When Sydney had shaken hands cordially 
with the farmer and his wife, he turned to 
the two girls : 

“ Good-by, little Blossom ; take care of 
your pretty face. By-bye, Topsy. What! 
is the girl crying. Why, my dear, I will 
come back before you know it to dance 
at your wedding.” He left a bright gold 
piece in each of their hands, called a plea- 
sant farewell to their surly brother, and 
having made each of the servants a sharer 
in his bounty, with one parting kiss to 
Ethel, he mounted his horse and rode 
slowly off, followed by his groom, who had 
arrived a day or two before his departure 
with the animals in question. 

Ethel watched him with strained eyes as 
he rode slowly out of the gate, down the 
highroad, lightly raising his cap and putting 
spurs to his horse, passed out of sight. 

The days passed drearily enough for 
poor Ethel, in spite of the real kindness of 
her hospitable entertainers. One evening 
she received a line from Ticonderoga. 
Sydney was under orders to join General 


36 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

Gates in Boston, and might possibly be 
sent later to Canada. 

Even in the quiet village intense excite- 
ment now prevailed. With young and old 
there was but one theme — the glorious 
struggle and its probable ending. Old 
men grown feeble in the land, to which 
they had come strong and young, were 
thrilled with a mighty enthusiasm, and, 
with flashing eyes and panting breath, 
boasted of their country’s glory, or sighed 
to think that others now must wield the 
weapons in the cause for which it would 
have been their proudest boast to fight 
and die. Boys, too young for war’s stern 
calling, fancied themselves men, and drilled 
each other in its arts and exercises. Men 
in the prime of their ripened manhood, 
filled with youth’s fiery ardor, longed for 
the battle-fields of right and liberty. Ma- 
trons and maidens, inspired with the he- 
roic spirit of the time, urged fathers and 
brothers, husbands and lovers, to go forth 
as one man to do or die. 

“ My friends and brothers,” cried a 
youthful speaker, who was no other than 
the reserved and taciturn Redmond Mor- 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 37 


ris, addressing a group of men at the cor- 
ner of a road, “ to-morrow night, from our 
little village, will go forth a chosen band 
to range themselves beneath the banner of 
our country’s valiant leader. Let not a 
man or boy who can hold a weapon re- 
main behind. Let us leave cheerfully our 
homes and kindred ; and if to die, what 
man will shrink from death in such a glo- 
rious cause? Think of the green valleys 
and high hills of our beloved America, 
think of the homes we hold so dear, and, 
with hands and hearts united, let us go 
forth to defend those homes and gain the 
freedom of our land.” 

Fired by his enthusiasm, with one unani- 
mous burst of patriotism they woke the 
distant echoes, and afar off, through the 
deepening gloom of the lonely forests, 
startling their wild, unreasoning inmates, 
resounded their heart-stirring cheer, wrung 
from the innermost depths of patriots’ 
souls from which the love of liberty and 
country gushed forth, rousing with in- 
spiration’s might the laggard souls, if such 
there were, who fain would rest within the 
shadow of their roof-tree. 


38 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

Ethel always remained at home, quiet 
and sad. What to her were the inspiring 
sounds that, falling upon her ear through 
the hush of evening, boded such deadly 
peril to her brother and his comrades in 
the stormy path of war, and full of such 
bitter hatred or burning indignation against 
her beloved England ? On the evening in 
question Farmer Morris and his wife — 
who had gone, as was their custom, to visit 
some old cronies and chat over past and 
present — returned to the farm-house rather 
early. They were sitting quietly with 
Ethel, just within the porch, when Red- 
mond came bounding up the path, his face 
glowing with some unusual excitement. 

“Wish me joy!” cried he as he ap- 
proached, his breath coming short and 
hard, his face eager and inspired, as it even 
struck Ethel she had never seen it before. 
“ I hold a captain’s commission in the 
Continental army, and to-morrow evening 
I join the regiment with my company. 
Then, mother,” he continued proudly, 
“ your boy, with a man’s heart in his bo- 
som, shall fight for the cause, so dear to 
us, of freedom and our native land.” 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 39 

The mother smiled through her tears 
with a mother’s noble pride, and the fa- 
ther grasped the boyish hand with a hearty 
and fervent pressure. 

“ God speed you, my boy ! ” he said 
with deep emotion ; “ and if at nightfall 
to-morrow we see you leave us, even 
though it be to return no more, we will 
have lost you in a glorious cause ; or if, 
through God’s great mercy, you are spared, 
you will come back in joy and honor to be 
the support of our declining years.” 

“Forgive us, Miss Hamilton,” said Mrs. 
Morris deprecatingly ; “ we almost forget 
you are not one of ourselves.” 

“ Let me be no restraint upon you,” said 
Ethel ; “ for though I cannot, of course, 
share in your joy or its cause, believe me 
I respect it.” 

“ By the way, mother,” said Redmond, 
turning to go out, after thanking Miss Ha- 
milton coldly for her measured congratula- 
tions, “ the officer who brought me my 
commission and marching orders will stay 
with us to-night. In about an hour I will 
return with him.” 

Ethel remained conversing for some time 


40 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


with the worthy couple, in order not to 
seem unfriendly or annoyed at their rejoic- 
ings. Suddenly a tall form came through 
the gate and up the walk with a quick, 
firm tread. It was an officer in the simple 
uniform of the Continental army, a man 
of grave and distinguished bearing, whom, 
as he drew near the porch, Ethel recog- 
nized, with a start, as the patriot whom 
she had heard in Boston addressing the 
citizens. 

“ Mrs. Morris, I presume,” he said in a 
deep but not unpleasant voice. “ Your 
son, being detained, sent me forward, as I 
believe I am to trespass on your hospita- 
lity for to-night.” 

“You are heartily welcome, sir,” said 
Mrs. Morris ; and her husband cordially 
re-echoed her words, grasping the stran- 
ger’s offered hand. 

“ I suppose I should introduce myself, 
that you may know at least the name of 
your guest. I am Major Rossiter, of the 
Continental army.” 

“ Glad to see you at my house, sir,” said 
the farmer, renewing his hospitable as- 
surances. “ This lady. Miss Hamilton, 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 41 

from Boston, is boarding with us for a 
time.” 

Ethel courteously, though with consider- 
able reserve, acknowledged the crude form 
of an introduction, and Major Rossiter, 
bowing gravely, at once addressed her. 

“ Of English parentage, I should say, 
if you will pardon the seeming imperti- 
nence of the remark ; but British-sounding 
names always attract my attention.” 

“ I am also of English birth,” said Ethel 
proudly, “ and my brother is an officer in 
her Majesty’s regiment of Hussars lately 
stationed at Ticonderoga.” 

“ Ah ! indeed,” said the young man with 
a slight compression of his lips. 

“Are you not also of English extrac- 
tion?” said she with an effort at civility — 
“ that is, judging, in your own way, from 
the name.” 

“ Of English descent, yes,” he replied. 

“ Yet, like so many others,” she said 
with a faint tinge of scorn, “ you are will- 
ing to espouse the cause of England’s ene- 
mies.” 

“ Pardon me,” he answered with some 
warmth; “say rather espousing the cause 


42 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


of my country’s liberty. With England, 
in common with most of my countrymen, I 
have severed all connection, and as dear 
to me now as my heart’s best blood is this 
land of my birth.” 

“ And what hopes can you entertain of 
success in such an unequal struggle, with 
a nation already celebrated for the strength 
of its army and navy ? ” 

“We must succeed,” said he quietly, 
but in a tone of deep conviction ; “ we 
have, first, the greatness of our cause; we 
have true hearts and strong arms ; and, 
though but a scattered handful, a brave 
and valiant few, in the face of hardship 
and fearful peril, bereft of all that can sus- 
tain life during the coming winter, we shall 
win or die, and leave after-years the wit- 
ness of wonderful deeds of valor which 
these few shall have performed to gain the 
freedom of our land.” 

“You love that land,” said Ethel in- 
voluntarily. 

“ Love it ! ” said he, throwing back his 
head, and speaking earnestly and almost 
solemnly. “ With our hearts’ deepest de- 
votion, second only to our God. Forgive 


THE WAR OF INBEPENDENCE. 


me,*' he added hastily ; “ why should I thus 
force my feelings on one to whom they are 
necessarily repugnant ? ” 

“ I can understand' something of them,” 
she said quietly, “ and find myself listen- 
ing with great interest. I must now say 
good-night, though, as it is past my usual 
hour for retiring.” 

The eventful evening came when, under 
cover of the night, the devoted little 
band went forth to do battle for “ God 
and native land.” The scene was a 
solemn and affecting one. Fathers, mo- 
thers, sisters, and sweethearts saw them 
depart with mingled grief and joy, utter- 
ing many a fervent prayer and blessing. 
Proudly they watched them set sail, though 
they knew that some, at least, among 
them were going forth from the “ haunts 
of those that knew them, from, the village 
of their childhood,” to return no.rnore. The 
shadows gathered thickly rouqd them, for 
the level sun had sunk behind the distant 
forests ; the tall trees, clad iii the sombre 
garments of the night, waved their branch- 
es as if in sad farewell, while oply the red 
light of their lanterns brightened their 


44 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


gloomy way. And mournful were the 
partings ; for some who embarked that 
starless night were sailing away into the 
solemn, shadows of the “ land of the here- 
after.” 

Days passed, and only at intervals came 
tidings that the Americans had been vic- 
torious in the memorable battle of Bunker 
Hill, which in all its details, with the fall 
of the noble and heroic Joseph Warren, 
is so familiar to us, though a hundred 
years have passed. Inspired by success, 
the patriots were urged on to new and 
glorious deeds. The first really authentic 
news that reached the village was on the 
arrival of Major Rossiter, who had been 
sent to collect recruits. He again took up 
his quarters at the farm-house at the ur- 
gent solicitation of the old couple. He 
related over and over again to his eager 
listeners the glories of the past few weeks, 
and to the delighted farmer and his wife 
the deeds of their soldier-boy, who was 
gradually, he told them, winning his way 
to fame as a gallant and daring officer, dis- 
tinguished for his heartfelt and unsullied 
love of country. No personal gain or 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 45 


honor could stain the glowing story of his 
patriotism. “ He cares not who com- 
mands,” said Major Rossiter, “ provided 
that he may follow. If danger or death 
is near, he seems but to court it, will- 
ing to fall in freedom’s cause.” Ethel 
Hamilton became, in spite of herself, much 
interested in these recitals, and listened, 
too, with considerable pleasure to his de- 
tails of his family and friends, many of 
whom were still in England. But of her 
brother he could give her no tidings, and 
her heart was wrung with bitter anguish 
by Sydney’s long-continued silence. 

“ He is my only brother,” she told him 
one evening, and I may say my only 
friend. Since our father’s and mother’s 
death he has cared for me as no other 
could or would have done. If I lose him, 

I lose all,” she said, simply but with such 
pathetic accents that the heart of the 
brave listener was touched. “ I do not 
know why I should tell you this,” she add- 
ed, “ for you, to whom he is simply an 
enemy, cannot sympathize with my grief 
and suspense.” 

Her suspense was soon, indeed, to end ; ^ 


46 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

that very evening she saw Susan approach- 
ing rapidly, her swarthy face pale, her eyes 
dilated with excitement. 

“ Miss Ethel,” she said in a whisper, 
“your brother is here, wounded, perhaps 
dying, and he must not fall into his ene- 
my’s hands.” 

“My God ! ” said Ethel, “what can be 
done? How can we save him ? ” 

“ We must save him,” said the girl ; “ and 
you may depend on me, miss. He was kind 
to me once, and I would risk my life to 
help him.” 

Ethel pressed her hand. “ Well, what 
is best to do ? ” 

“We will bring him here,” said Susan ; 
“ and there is a loft above, where he can 
remain concealed, at least for a while. It 
is pretty dark now,” she continued, “ and 
we will go down to the bushes yonder 
where he is now hidden. He thinks he 
can walk, and, with our help, will easily 
reach the house.” 

The girls crept cautiously down to the 
low brushwood where Sydney lay con- 
cealed, his handsome face wan and almost 
ghastly. Eithel choked back her tears. 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 47 

‘‘ Sydney,” she said, “ we have no time 
for questions or greetings ; through this 
faithful girl your life shall be saved.” 

Weak and exhausted, he leaned heavily 
for support on these two frail girls who 
a few weeks before would have been to 
him a feather’s weight. Farmer Morris 
and his wife were absent from the farm, 
Mary had gone to the village with some 
of her companions, and Major Rossiter 
was at the inn drilling his recruits. So 
they slipped in unnoticed, the house being 
dark and silent. Past the flower-covered 
porch they led him, whence he had gone 
forth in the flush of youth and daring. 
The kitchen was deserted ; the shadows 
reigned supreme, broken only by the glim- 
mering embers. They reached the loft 
in safety, and laid him down on some 
freshly-gathered straw. Susan set about 
making the place as comfortable as might 
be, and then stole down to the kitchen 
and prepared him some nourishing broth, 
of which she brought a plentiful supply, 
fearing lest they should hereafter find diffi- 
culty in procuring it. Sydney spoke but 
little, and, in short and broken sentences, 


48 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

told them that he had been wandering 
night and day since the troops were dis- 
persed, and he in the late battle danger- 
ously wounded and left on the field for 
dead. Without food, and enfeebled by 
his wounds, he had feared that he would 
never reach Ethel alive. “ I cared not, 
my sister,” he said, what the risk might 
be. I resolved to see you once more, that 
you might know my fate, and — ” A sud- 
den faintness interrupted him, and he 
could say no more. 

After they had restored him Susan de- 
clared that, in order to avoid suspicion, it 
would be better for Ethel, at least, to re- 
main below. 

“ We have dressed his wound,” she said, 
‘‘ and he may sleep now. I will come in 
at times to see him, but we must take care 
that they do not suspect.” 

Ethel went down, and was scarcely 
seated on the porch before Major Rossiter 
appeared. He noticed her extreme pale- 
ness and her nervous, flurried manner, 
which she vainly sought to render com- 
posed, but concluded it must be the effects 
of her anxiety for her brother’s fate. 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 49 

“ I suppose you have had no news of 
your brother,” he said gently. 

She started, and glanced at him sharply; 
but his face reassured her : there was noth- 
ing there save momentary surprise at her 
involuntary movement. 

How should I receive any news? ” she 
said. “ The means of communication are 
so very uncertain.” 

Just then Mary came rushing towards 
them ; she said excitedly : “ They say in 
the village that a man in British uniform 
was seen skulking around the place, and 
then all at once disappeared. Perhaps we 
may be burned in our beds. I want Susan 
to come with me till we find out all about 
it.” 

To Major Rossiter a sort of inspiration 
seemed to come, and he glanced keenly at 
Ethel ; but though he could see her pallor 
deepen, with wonderful self-control she 
gave no outward sign of agitation. 

“ She must be busy somewhere, Mary,” 
said Ethel calmly ; “ however, she has not 
been in the kitchen since Major Rossiter 
and I have been sitting here.” 

“ Perhaps she is up-stairs,” said Mary. 


50 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


“ I will run up and look for her.” It was a 
trying moment to Ethel, till the girl re- 
turned and declared that she had been in 
every room, and she certainly was not up 
there. She seated herself sulkily, much 
put out at being unable to gratify her 
curiosity, but afraid to venture out alone. 
Suddenly a step was heard on the stairs, 
and Susan herself appeared. 

“ Goodness! ” said Mary,“ where on earth 
did you hide yourself? I looked every- 
where for you.” 

“ I have been up-stairs,” said Susan. 

“ Where could you have been, unless in 
the loft with the ghosts? I looked every- 
where.” 

“Your sight is bad, then, that is all,” 
said Susan, and the matter dropped. 

Major Rossiter, however, drew his own 
conclusions, which he felt to be almost cer- 
tainty. He strolled ont on the path in 
deep perplexity, uncertain as to what 
course he should pursue. 

“ Major Rossiter,” said a voice behind 
him, and, turning, he saw Ethel, almost 
unearthly fair and spiritual-looking through 
the shadows, but with the air of deter- 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 5 1 

mination which her face could assume at 
will. “ I see, by your manner, that you 
know, or at least suspect, all. My brother 
is, then, at your mercy ; he is severely 
wounded, perhaps dying, and through 
hardships and peril has come here to see 
my face once more, that all my weary 
doubts might end and I might be certain 
of his fate. You are a soldier and his 
enemy, but you are also a man, and if you 
can deliver up to imprisonment and cer- 
tain death a helpless and disabled man, I 
can say no more ; but I warn you. Major 
Rossiter, that they who would take my 
brother from that house must step over 
my dead body.” 

She looked so noble and heroic in her love 
for her soldier-brother, and yet so frail and 
slight, that he gazed at her with a sort of 
reverence. With uncovered head he stood 
before her in the shaded path, where the 
great trees almost met above their heads. 
There was an expression of deep perplex- 
ity, and even anguish, on his dark, ex- 
pressive face. 

“ Why have you told me this ? ” he said. 

Why did you not let my doubt remain as 


52 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


it was? I should never have sought to 
make it certainty. But now you ask of me 
what, I fear, would be a sacrifice of honor 
and duty. As a soldier and an officer my 
course is clear. I am bound to give him 
up.” 

“ Then God help me !” she said with bit- 
ter anguish. “ He is helpless, even uncon- 
scious, and has no other protector but me. 
Yet your ungenerous strife with defence- 
less men shall include a woman. You will 
find me beside my dying brother, defend- 
ing him with my own life.” 

‘‘ I am a patriot,” he said, as if thinking 
aloud, “ and men deem me true and tried ; 
yet my country’s cause would not be serv- 
ed by such a deed of shame.” He turned 
to her. “ You have conquered,” he said ; 
“ and if it be a breach of duty, it is my 
first ; if it be disloyalty in word or act, I 
have never been false to my country be- 
fore. God grant,” he added, looking at 
her with a strange, passionate tenderness, 
“ that the sacrifice be indeed to pity and 
to suffering humanity, and not to that 
deeper and more subtle sentiment which 
has made my heart the captive of your 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 53 

gentle eyes and golden hair! It is a strange 
time and place for such avowal,” he went 
on so impetuously that she could not re- 
strain him; “ stranger yet that I, the sworn 
enemy of your country, should here, be- 
neath the broad, free sky and amid the 
trees and woodlands of my beloved Ame- 
rica, cast before you, an alien of our op- 
pressor’s race, my heart as subject for 
your pity or scorn.” 

“ Hush! ” she said. “ You must not talk of 
hearts ; my brother is alone and, it may be, 
dying. You have been merciful and gen- 
erous, and Heaven will requite you. If 
such like acts be a breach of honor and 
loyalty, they will rise before you at that 
dread tribunal where those words will be 
but an empty sound. From my heart I 
thank you.” 

He made no effort to detain her, and, 
in fact, she disappeared almost like magic, 
leaving him to speculate upon the folly 
which had wrung from him an avowal of 
his love. 

At the farm-house all was joyful con- 
fusion. Redmond had arrived for a week’s 
furlough, his arm in a sling. Near him 


54 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


sat his mother, wiping her tear-bedimmed 
spectacles, his father vehemently mopping 
his face with his large yellow silk handker- 
chief to conceal the tears of joy and pride. 
His sisters hung around him fondly, while 
groups of neighbors who had gathered in 
to hear the news poured out a stream of 
eager questions, each about their own. 
Ethel cast one glance of distress at Susan, 
knowing his presence increased their diffi- 
culties, and Susan, understanding, returned 
it with a significant gesture. 

Ethel spoke to Redmond with grave 
courtesy, congratulating him upon his safe 
return, and he replied with his usual re- 
serve. 

“ Why, Morris,’* said Rossiter, entering 
quickly, “ this is a surprise.” 

“ Glad to see you, Rossiter,” returned 
the other. “You have been drumming up, 
have you not ? ” 

“ Slow work it is, too,” said Rossiter, 
with a wrinkle between his eyebrows, with 
him always an expression of doubt or an- 
noyance. “ I wish to heaven my work 
was done and I was back with the boys. 
How long is your leave ? ” 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 55 

“Just a week, to get this thing in 
order,” answered Morris, touching his 
wounded arm ; “ then I expect we will 
have pretty hot work around the forts or 
up in Canada.” 

“ It will be almost a relief after this 
quiet,” said Rossiter. Ethel retired to 
her room, and remained praying and trem- 
bling till the house was perfectly quiet and 
she knew that its inmates had gone to rest. 
She heard a light tap at the door, and, know- 
ing it was Susan, she opened it at once. 

“All is still now,” said Susan in a whis- 
per; “let us go up.” With every nerve 
quivering, Ethel followed her to the loft, 
and they watched beside the young man, 
who was unconscious and delirious all 
night long, till through the chinks and 
crannies of the wooden building, and 
through the one small aperture which 
served for a window, the white light of the 
dawn crept slowly in, and the first faint 
streaks of the awakening morn appeared in 
the sky, and they knew that it was day. 
In its cold gleam the girls crept softly 
down, fearing that now, when the sleeping 
inmates of the house would be roused to 


56 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


their daily toil, they might be discov- 
ered. Ethel appeared at breakfast with 
the dark rings of her sleepless night show- 
ing plainly around her tired eyes, and even 
Susan’s swarthy face seemed a shade paler 
and more sallow. 

“ I say, mother,” said Redmond care- 
lessly, the ghosts were at it with a ven- 
geance in the loft above my head all night 
long till the dawn.” 

“ Nonsense, boy ! ” said his father ; ** you 
must have been dreaming.” 

“ No,” said he, ** I gave myself a good 
pinch to be sure I was awake.” 

Surely you are not a believer in spirits,” 
said Rossiter in his quiet way. “ I could 
venture to say you heard me in my room 
opposite, and imagined it was overhead ; 
for I was so wakeful and restless that I 
spent most of the night smoking at my 
window.” 

“ Perhaps so,” said Redmond ; any way, 
I guess it is scarcely worth talking about.” 

Ethel did not dare to glance at Susan 
even once during the meal. Redmond, 
who sat opposite her, suddenly remarked : 

“ Miss Hamilton looks as if she had seen 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 57 

or heard ghosts. Did they spoil your rest, 
too?" 

“ I am so familiar with ghosts," she re- 
plied with a faint smile, “ that they no 
longer disturb my rest. Anxiety and sus- 
pense are my ghosts," she explained. 

Redmond made no reply, as, in fact, he 
knew not what to say. Rossiter glanced 
compassionately at her several times dur- 
ing breakfast. 

“ How bravely she keeps up," he 
thought, “ where many a strong man 
would fail ! " 

That afternoon Rossiter and Redmond 
Morris were sitting on the porch smok- 
. ing, and talking over the war and the 
probable campaigns for the fall and winter, 
when suddenly Mary, who seemed des- 
tined to be the evil genius of the affair, 
came rushing down stairs breathless. 

“ Brother Redmond," she cried, “ as 
sure as you live there are ghosts or some- 
thing in the loft." 

“ Why, what do you mean ? " said Red- 
mond. 

‘‘I was in my room," she exclaimed 
breathlessly, “ and I heard steps and whis- 


58 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


pers just as plain as could be, and then 
groans.” 

“ Mere fancy,” said Rossiter, who knew 
too well what it meant. “ Why, Mary, I 
gave you credit for more sense.” 

“ I tell you there is something up there,” 
she said, beginning to cry. 

*‘We may as well end this thing at 
once,” cried Redmond, springing to his 
feet. “ Ghosts or devils, I shall find out 
what all this means.” 

“ Rats or bats, more likely, my dear fel- 
low,” said Rossiter. “ Why, I am ashamed 
of you ; you are as absurd as this child 
here.” 

“ Don’t mind him, brother,” said Mary, 
a little spiteful at being spoken of so 
slightingly. If Major Rossiter is afraid, 
you are not, so do come up.” 

“ I think we had better,” said Red- 
mond ; it will satisfy her, any way.” 

“A wilful man must have his way,” 
said Rossiter, shrugging his shoulders. “ So 
come on, then.” And he contrived to reach 
the stairs and the loft a moment or two 
before Morris. 

There is not an instant to be lost,” 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 


said he to the girls in a quick whisper ; 
“ throw something over him — Redmond is 
coming up ! ” 

Quick as thought Susan seized a dark 
rug which lay near by, and completely 
covered the unconscious form of the young 
officer, just as her brother appeared at the 
entrance. 

“ Whew ! ” said he, giving a long whistle, 
and at once surmising that something un- 
usual was on foot, “ so you are the ghosts. 
And pray,” said he, turning sternly to 
his sister, were you the same who dis- 
turbed my rest last night ? ” 

You find me speechless,” said Rossiter, 
trying to laugh it off. “ I came up with 
the expectation of seeing some terrible 
phantoms, and here I find Miss Hamilton 
and your sister reconnoitring the country 
through the aperture in the wall.” 

“ What means this foolery ? ” said Red- 
mond angrily, approaching his sister as he 
spoke. 

“ I thought every part of the house was 
free to us, without you flaring up in this 
way.” 

The dim light of the room had been 


6o LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

favorable to their hopes, and Rossiter had 
contrived to place himself between Red- 
mond and that corner of the loft where 
the young soldier lay. All might have 
been well, but the patient, in his deli- 
rium, tossed his arms and threw off a por- 
tion of the coverlet, muttering some broken 
words. 

Redmond darted forward, and, before 
any one could interfere, had snatched the 
covering from the prostrate form. He 
stood for a moment in speechless rage and 
astonishment, gazing at the hated British 
uniform, the wasted face, and the waves of 
chestnut hair, which he recognized at a 
glance. 

Meanwhile, the wounded man raved on, 
imagining himself by some cool stream in 
merry England, and treading some well- 
known path or mossy lane, now with one 
whom he named Maud, now with Ethel. 

Ethel, half fainting, clung to Susan. 
Rossiter seemed uncertain what to say or 
do, and Mary, who, hearing no alarming 
sounds, had allowed curiosity to lead her 
up, now screamed aloud. 

“ How have you dared,” cried Redmond, 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 6l 

choking with passion, “ to bring this man 
here, a British spy or traitor ? ” 

“Be calm,” said Rossiter, advancing; 
“ the man is evidently dying.” 

“ Our house is dishonored,” said the 
young man; then, with an effort to con- 
trol himself, he said more calmly: “He 
must be given into the hands of a court- 
martial.” 

“You coward!” said Susan angrily, 
“ you dare not do such an act.” 

“ It is my duty,” said he coldly and de- 
cidedly, “ and be assured I shall not shrink 
from it on any account.” 

“ As you hope for mercy at your dying 
day, leave him to die in peace !” said Ethel, 
clasping her hands imploringly. 

“ I cannot do it,” said he ; “ it is useless 
to urge me.” 

Rossiter vainly sought to influence him, 
but he was deaf to entreaty or remon- 
strance. He hastened to the village for 
a detachment of his men and the warrant 
for his arrest. 

“ I can be of no use here,” said Rossiter, 
“ and I shall go to the village and see what 
can be done there, even to detain him ; for 


62 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


my own opinion is that Captain Hamilton 
will not last another hour." 

Mary had ventured to the head of the 
stairs, and was now sobbing hysterically. 

“ Go down, Mary," said Susan quietly ; 
“ you cannot help us, and you are only 
disturbing the poor gentleman." 

** If you had only told me ! " sobbed 
Mary. 

“ Well, it does not matter now, only go 
down ; I tell you go." 

When she had gone, the girls remained 
in silent anguish. 

“ If he were only conscious, there might 
be yet some chance of escape for him." 

I fear not," said Susan, “ even if he 
had his senses " ; for she saw too plainly 
that his little strength was fast giving 
out. Suddenly they perceived a change 
in his face, a gleam of returning conscious- 
ness. 

“ Where am I, Ethel? " he said wonder- 
ingly, in a low, faint voice. 

“You are in a place of safety, Sydney, 
and have been severely wounded." 

He raised his hand feebly, and passed 
it over his face. 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 63 

Oh ! yes, I remember all now.” Then, 
after a moment’s pause, he said : “ Ethel, 
am I going to die ? ” 

“ I hope not, dear,” she said, the un- 
heeded tears falling on his low couch. 

‘‘ Who is with you ? ” he asked again. 

“ Susan — the faithful Susan.” 

“ Whom I used to call Topsy ? ” with a 
faint smile at the recollection. 

“Yes, dear, the same ; it was she who 
saved you, and has since watched over you 
with devoted care.” 

“ Yes, she brought me here to you,” he 
said ; “ I remember now. Come here, Su- 
san.” 

The girl came over, and sank down sob- 
bing by his side. 

“ Are you crying for me ? ” he said won- 
deringly in the calm, solemn voice that 
sounded so oddly in him. 

*-* When I think of your goodness to me, 
sir, that time before you went to the war.” 

“ How long ago it seems! ” he answered ; 
“but I am very grateful to you, Susan. 
Accept a dying man’s thanks. I wish I 
could express it better, but my time is so 
short, and my voice is failing ; Ethel will 


64 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

thank you better than I can do, when I am 
gone.” 

“ Ethel,” he said fondly, taking his sis- 
ter’s hand, while Susan retired to the 
further end of the room, “you will re- 
member all that Susan has done for me. 
And now, dear sister, I am going to leave 
you ; I feel that the time of our parting has 
come. I had hoped to live many more 
years to take care of you. It cannot be, 
though ; but I have tried to keep my 
promise to our dead mother. If I have 
ever failed, forget it now. It is hard to 
leave you alone in a foreign land, but these 
orders must be obeyed.” He was often 
obliged to pause, for his breath grew short- 
er. “ When you return to England, will 
you take a message to Maud? Tell her 
I thought of her in life and death. Her 
picture is here over my heart, a little be- 
low my death-wound,” he said, laying his 
hand on his side. “ In the locket is the 
piece of her hair which she gave me when 
we parted. Say I fell in England’s cause.” 
And a transient glow lit up his handsome, 
boyish face. “ Bright and beautiful as the 
world and nature is, which I shall see no 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 6 $ 

more, a soldier’s death has but little terror 
for me.” 

“O my brother, my brother!” said 
Ethel, with an uncontrollable burst of 
grief. “ Oh ! what heart-breaking loneli- 
ness and desolation there is before me 
when you are gone. I would gladly have 
died to save you, Sydney, my beloved bro- 
ther ! ” 

He pressed her hand and drew her 
nearer to him. 

“ Our hearts were very closely inter- 
twined in life, dear, and death alone could 
severe the tie.” 

“Sydney,” said Ethel earnestly, “ try to 
think of the after-life. Are you prepared 
to meet your God ? There is no priest in 
or near the village, or I would have him 
brought.” 

“ Before I went into battle,” he said, “ I 
made my preparations for the other world — 
squared my accounts, as we soldiers say — 
and now I can only recommend myself to 
the mercy of God. Pray for me, sister, as 
you have done through my careless boy- 
hood. Susan, you will pray for me too, 
will you not?” 


66 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


Poor Susan could not answer, but she 
made a gesture of assent. 

“ I do not fear death,” he said ; “ my 
conscience is at peace, and, through the 
mercy of God, I feel that all will be well.” 

“ I arrest you in the name of the law,” 
said Redmond, advancing quickly to the 
side of the couch. 

Even the law, my friend,” said Sydney 
with a faint smile, “ binds me no longer. 
I have received my summons, and proba- 
bly in a few minutes must appear before a 
higher tribunal. You a soldier, and cannot 
read the signs of death ! ” 

Redmond drew back, hat in hand, awed 
into silence. The soldiers who accompa- 
nied him formed a background to the pic- 
ture, kneeling, mute and awe-struck, while 
the sands of Sydney’s bright life were ebb- 
ling out surely and swiftly. 

* Ethel,” said he clearly and distinctly, 
though faintly, “ let me feel your hand, for 
I cannot see your face. Our parting has 
come, but we shall have, let us hope, a 
joyful meeting.” 

She clung closely to her idolized bro- 
ther in speechless anguish, as he pressed 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 6/ 

her tenderly to his heart ; but the encircling 
arms relaxed, a slight quiver passed through 
the body, and he was dead, with a smile 
of ineffable peace and rest on his youth- 
ful face. She had heard him murmur with a 
last effort the sacred names which, to the 
traveller in the valley of the shadow of 
death, are a beacon of immortal hope and 

joy- 

With one heart-piercing shriek Ethel 
fell senseless beside his rigid form, and 
thus Major Rossiter found them, and, with 
Susan’s help, he bore her down to her own 
apartment and laid her on the bed. 

Then he returned and stood gazing for 
some moments at the dead body of the 
gallant young Englishman. The uniform 
was soiled and torn ; the long, curling lashes, 
so like Ethel’s, were resting on the white, 
worn cheeks; the chestnut hair lay cluster- 
ing on his forehead, damp with the dews 
of death. Major Rossiter had never seen 
him in life, but he said now to Susan, who 
had returned to the loft : 

“He was remarkably handsome, was he 
not ? ” 

“ Oh! if you had seen him, sir, when he 


68 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


set out for the war, with the color in his 
cheeks and the light in his eyes; and 
a kinder-hearted gentleman never drew 
breath.” The grateful creature, overcome 
by the recollection of his generosity and 
kindness, burst into tears. 

It was long before Ethel returned to 
consciousness, and then the remembrance 
of her great loss came to her but slowly. 

“ I have lost my only friend,” she said 
in a tone of the deepest pathos, and these 
simple words were far more touching than 
the most violent demonstrations of sor- 
row. 

Farmer Morris and his wife, on their 
return home, being, informed of what had 
taken place, were in the deepest distress. 
Grief for the light-hearted and kindly young 
officer, thus early called from life, and pity 
for the poor young stranger, alone now in 
a foreign land, called forth their warmest 
sympathy. But all their delicate and un- 
obtrusive kindness could not heal the 
wound, and for hours together she remain- 
ed mute and motionless, or at intervals 
fell into deep and prolonged fainting fits. 

The body was brought down to the 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 69 

darkened sitting-room, and here, both day 
and night, Mary and Susan vied with each 
other in strewing flowers upon the bier, 
weeping as they looked upon the handsome, 
winning face they remembered so radiant 
with life and merriment. Mary bitterly 
reproached herself as having been instru- 
mental in at least disturbing the last mo- 
ments of the dying man. 

The young soldier was laid next day in 
the little cemetery, close by the forest, and 
in that alien earth they left him to repose, 
awaiting the resurrection. A cross re- 
corded his name and age : 

“ Capt. Sydney Rutherford Hamilton, 

Of his Majesty’s Regiment of Hussars. 

Died of wounds received in battle, 

July 24, 1775, aged 28. 

Reqiiiescat in pace'* 

In the afternoon of the same day Rossi- 
ter and Redmond Morris were to rejoin 
their regiment, their furlough having ex- 
pired. Such was the indignation of the 
warm-hearted Morrises at their son's con- 
duct in regard to Sydney Hamilton, that 
when he came to say farewell they main- 
tained a cold and constrained silence. Yet 


70 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

he had repented bitterly of his heartless 
action, which in the presence of death he 
had learned to regard as an unpardonable 
cruelty. He had not really believed that 
his enemy was dying, and his fierce and 
overmastering loyalty, his implacable ha- 
tred of his country’s foes, had urged him 
on to this deed of mistaken devotion to 
country. 

“ Mother,” said he, approaching her, 
dressed in the full uniform which became 
him so well, “ I am going now, and have 
come to say good-by. Give me your 
blessing, and forgive me ; for I did what I 
thought was my duty, though perhaps, 
indeed, I was wrong.” 

His mother still looked grave and 
showed no symptoms of relenting. 

It is hard,” he said, “ if I must go to 
battle without one word from you ; and re- 
member, you may see my face no more, 
for all who depart in these times do not 
return.” 

She could resist this no longer, and, put- 
ting her arms round his neck, she forgave 
and blessed him. 

“God bless you, mother!” he said; 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 7 1 


“ and should my men return without their 
leader, think of me as gently as you can ; 
it was all for love of country.” 

He again offered his hand to his father, 
who accepted it coldly and with consider- 
able reserve. His sisters kissed him, but 
not with the fond and clinging affection 
which had ever before greeted his depar- 
ture and return. 

“ Well, be it so,” he said, with a poor 
attempt at cheerfulness. “ It is the first 
time we have ever parted like this. God 
grant it may not be the last time we shall 
ever meet or part on earth ! Mother,” 
he called, turning back, say good-by to 
Miss Hamilton, and ask her to forgive me, 
if she can. Now, Rossiter, I am ready.” 

The latter had bidden them all fare- 
well, and was pacing up and down outside, 
leaving the family together without the 
presence of a stranger. He thanked them 
warmly for their hospitality, and left many 
kind messages for Miss Hamilton. He 
went, indeed, haunted by her face as he 
had seen it last, pale and weary, with all 
the brightness gone, save from the witch- 
ing gold of her wavy hair. He mentally 


72 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 


resolved, if his life should be spared, to 
see her again, cost what it might. 

The American troops, with but few 
resources, were accomplishing wonders. 
They invaded Canada under Schuyler, who 
was afterwards relieved by Montgomery, 
and under his command Rossiter and Red- 
mond Morris took part in the whole cam- 
paign. They were present at the siege of 
Quebec, at which fell the brave and la- 
mented Montgomery. When the assault 
was over, Rossiter sought for Redmond, 
and found him lying on the ground, 
pierced by a musket-shot. 

“ That last shot did for me,” said Red- 
mond, recognizing Rossiter joyfully. “ I 
have scarcely a moment to live. You will 
see all the folks. Father and the girls 
parted from me in anger, and I can never 
go back to them now. Give them my love, 
and tell them I did wrong that time, but 
all through love of country. Tell my 
mother, old fellow,” said he, a shade of 
tenderness mingling with the death sha- 
dows on his face, I saw our chaplain, and 
squared everything with him ; that will 
make her mind easy. Ask her to pray for 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 73 

me, and tell her almost my last thoughts 
were of her and my country. God be 
merciful to me ! ” 

He ceased speaking, and Rossiter, stoop- 
ing, saw that the breath had left the body, 
and he gently closed the eyes. A soldier 
has but little time for regret. He had the 
body placed in safety till he could make 
arrangements to have it sent home, and 
then he was obliged to place himself at the 
head of his regiment. 

Meanwhile had come and gone the pri- 
mal day of American liberty, when pure 
and unsullied patriots offered to freedom 
and to freedom’s cause the noblest trophy 
that had yet been hers. Regardless of 
creed or race, together they stood, in one 
bright phalanx, each with unshaken hand, 
though life might be the cost of such an 
act, affixing their names, in bold, firm char- 
acters, to the grand, monumental scroll, the 
Magna Charter of their country’s liberty. 
Down through the deathless annals of 
the world’s historic page has been borne 
on the golden breath of fame no prouder 
distinction, no truer or more lasting glory, 
than the immortal title. Signers of the 


74 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF . 

Declaration of Independence. Through 
the blue and hazy distance of a hundred 
eventful years we do homage to their 
heroic worth, and can feel our hearts beat 
high with glad enthusiasm when we con- 
ceive how, in that hour of triumph, the 
great heart of the nation throbbed and 
thrilled, and burst in one unanimous thun- 
der of applause, boundless, limitless, and 
uncontrolled as are the burning streams 
which, from the heaving caverns of Mount 
Vesuvius, rush with overmastering power 
down upon the trembling cities far beneath. 
And shall we forget one trembling note of 
praise for him, the deathless hero, whose 
name alone, through all the swift and 
changeful years, thrills with a patriot’s 
pride the humblest American heart, and 
shall stand out in the grand, uncertain 
future, to generations yet unborn, as the 
model of a soldier and a chief? 

It w'as months before Rossiter got leave 
again. On his return he found the Morris- 
es still in the deepest affliction. The 
father seemed an old and stricken man ; the 
mother bearing the look of resigned and 
meekly-endured sorrow which even the 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 


long years never entirely remove from 
some faces. The sisters, even Mary, were 
quiet and subdued. They brought Major 
Rossiter to the cemetery where their bro- 
ther rested in endless sleep, close by the 
man whose life had so strangely crossed 
his own. Side by side they lay till the 
hour of the great awakening. On his sim- 
ple monument was inscribed : 

Killed at the Siege of Quebec, Dec. 31, 1775, 
Redmond Morris, 

Of the Continental Army, 

Aged 24. 

Jlfay he rest in peace. 

Rossiter’s meeting with Ethel Hamilton 
was somewhat formal and constrained. 
At the first opportunity, however, he 
sought an interview with her. 

“ Miss Hamilton,” he said gravely, “ I 
once took the liberty of expressing my 
feelings in regard to you. I am conscious 
that to revert to the subject at this time 
would be premature and unseemly, under 
other circumstances ; but the fortunes of 
war are uncertain, and it seems to me 
that I could more easily meet a soldier’s 
death or face a soldier’s perils with the 


76 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

knowledge of my fate from your own 
lips/' 

He stood before her, tall and manly, his 
dark, handsome face glowing with the 
deep earnestness of his pleading. He 
was singularly handsome, though the 
scorching heat of many suns had deeply 
bronzed his cheeks. It was a thoughtful, 
self-reliant face, which a woman' looking 
upon would feel herself inevitably com- 
pelled to trust. Ethel bowed her head, 
but did not reply. 

“ On the impulse of the moment I told 
you then what I can only repeat : that my 
heart is entirely in your keeping. It may 
seem the very presumption of folly to 
hope for any kindly feeling on your part 
for your country’s enemy.” 

“ You forget, Major Rossiter,” she said 
gently, “ with what gratitude I must ever 
remember your former kindness and gene- 
rosity.” 

“ Pardon me, Miss Hamilton,” said he, 
somewhat bitterly, ^‘ifit sounds ungracious, 
but my claim to your gratitude is very 
slight, and permit me to add that it is the 
last feeling I should wish to find in you. 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 


You are, however, kind to assure me of 
your gratitude, with which, I presume, I 
must be content.” 

“ And what if I assure you,” said she, 
with downcast eyes and blushing face, 
“ that though I have hated and scorned 
myself for the very thought, yet my feel- 
ings towards you, my country’s enemy, 
are not alone of gratitude?” 

“ Of friendship, then,” he said ; “ the 
word has a mocking sweetness.” 

“ Sweeter than gratitude, deeper than 
friendship ; can you not guess its name ? ” 

He stood as if overcome by her words. 
That she loved him he had scarcely dared 
to hope, yet here was her own assurance. 

What he said, and how she answered, 
must be left to conjecture ; but with the 
shadow of the two graves around them, 
with the path of war and danger still be- 
fore him, they lived over again the old, old 
sweetness of the legend beautiful, and, 
during the few days preceding his depar- 
ture, wandered together down the pleasant 
pathways, on the margin of the forests, and 
watched the level sunbeams flickering on 
the waving grasses, their love subdued and 


78 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 

chastened, but rendered deeper and more 
lasting, by the tender memory of her 
grief and the solemn scenes of death and 
strife through which they both had pass- 
ed. They were married before he left, in 
the little wooden chapel — married quietly 
and solemnly, on the very eve of their 
parting ; but a deep, abiding trust, a strong 
and tender love, cemented the bond which 
the words of the priest pronounced, in the 
sight of Heaven, inviolable. 

Ethel remained in the quiet village while 
her husband took part in the various cam- 
paigns of the war, and every day she visit- 
ed the grave of her soldier-brother, in the 
shadow of whose coming death she had 
found the love which had been sent in 
mercy. She found an opportunity to send 
to Maud Trevelyan, to whom he had been 
betrothed, Sydney’s picture and locket, 
with a letter containing his message and 
the details of his death. 

When peace once more settled down on 
the country, she enjoyed many years of 
quiet happiness ; yet, truly and fondly as 
she loved her husband, the once all-absorb- 
ing affection for her brother remained as a 


THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE. 79 

thing apart, his memory a precious pos- 
session. She often recalled him as he 
bade her farewell that day — young, strong, 
and handsome, with all the brightness of 
the world upon him, and scarcely a shade 
of its sorrow. Susan always remained with 
them, and was often heard to describe the 
handsome, dashing officer, his light-hearted 
gayety and generous kindness, growing 
eloquent over the recollection. 

To us, the dwellers in another century, 
the hopes and fears, and loves and hatreds, 
of those by-gone hearts are of little mo- 
ment ; but we can look back and bless 
with loving pride the memory of that gal- 
lant patriot band, over whose still graves 
the deathless laurels of their country’s 
glory rest — America’s proudest and her 
noblest boast: the men who fought and 
fell in freedom’s cause, and sealed with 
their blood her Declaration of Indepen- 
dence. 


THE END. 


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4 • 


LIFE PICTURES. 


By anna T. SADLIER. 





LIFE PICTURES. 


A Southern home stood bright and 
fair on the banks of a grand and pictur- 
esque river, or rather where two noble 
streams blend into one, and, with unbro-' 
ken harmony, roll on and outward to the 
sea. Their shores have many a smiling 
landscape : fair fields of golden grain ready 
for the harvest time ; pleasant homes, 
wherein the threads of life are woven 
daily into the woof of household charities ; 
forests, and remnants of forests hewn 
down by older generations ; mountains ris- 
ing dark and hoary, peaks overtopping 
peaks, eager to catch the falling brightness 
of the sun, and soaring in their vastness 
so near to the clouds that they simply 
serve to show how far off earth and the 
3 


4 


LIFE PICTURES. 


things of earth, in their loftiest flights, are 
from the immeasurable heavens. 

The home stood, as we have said, beside 
the old historic Potomac where it mingles 
with the Shenandoah. . Inwardly and out- 
Avardly it was rich in the finished elegance 
of Southern tastefulness — a long, low villa, 
with many a long French window thrown 
open to the sun, or, on summer evenings, 
to the soft west wind and its burden of 
fragrance. Lawns stretched out before it ; 
terraces were made into flower-beds, and 
paths, and artistic designs by landscape 
gardeners ; and orchards at the back of the 
house had clumps of various trees that, 
but for their boughs, weighed down in the 
autumn with gold, or purple, or crimson 
fruit, might have been mistaken for minia- 
ture forests. 

Here dwelt, in the purple and fine linen of 
life, a young, slender man of thirty, whose 
face, when he raised it from a great carved 
desk where he was writing, showed signs 
of great delicacy, and gave promise of 
early decay. A winning face it was, with 
something of a higher life in its thoughtful 
gravity and gentle dignity — a face finely 


LIFE PICTURES. 


5 


chiselled, a mouth firm but gentle, eyes 
gray and serious, an expression calm and 
earnest. 

With him lived an only sister, who re- 
sembled him somewhat, and yet in many 
things was most unlike — a warm, impul- 
sive little Southern girl, with a suspicion 
of creole blood about her, so dark was her 
skin and so blue were her eyes, so golden 
was the hair that framed the face with its 
soft masses. She was very girlish and 
very slender, and constantly disturbed her 
grave brother in his studies; but he loved 
her very dearly and tenderly, though 
through all his fond indulgence he held her 
in gentle check. They lived very happily 
here, Marianne flitting around among the 
flowers and fields and orchards, and study- 
ing botany, a little astronomy, and other 
delightful branches of science with her bro- 
ther. She had had a governess, also been 
a year or two with the Ladies of the 
Sacred Heart in her native State, and now 
Ernest was superintending her studies 
himself. 

On this particular day he was studying 
out and rendering into English a passage 


6 


LIFE PICTURES. 


from Tertullian, when Marianne bounded 
in through one of the low French win- 
dows. 

“ Ernest,” said she, ** I have just found 
a large butterfly. Cato caught it for me, 
and it is a splendid specimen for my col- 
lection.” 

Ernest dropped Tertullian, lingering 
just a moment to catch the last word of a 
paragraph, then smiled and leaned back in 
his chair. 

“ What species is it, Marianne ? Let 
me see.” 

She showed it to him, and, sitting down 
on a stool before him, laughed merrily. 

“ They did well to call you Ernest,” she 
said ; for certainly you are the gravest 
and most earnest man I ever met.” 

He laughed, or rather smiled. He rare- 
ly laughed, for physical suffering had left 
him too much of its languor for emotion 
of any kind. He examined the butterfly 
carefully, told Marianne the proper place 
for it in her collection, and was left to 
Tertullian, the restless little disturber 
kissing the tips of her fingers to him as 
she vanished through the window. 


LIFE PICTURES. 


7 


He heard her far down the lawn in ani- 
mated conversation with some of the black 
folk, whose queer negro phraseology came 
floating up to him through the window. 
Marianne made tea for him at eight — 
they usually dined at half-past four — and 
chatted merrily to him all the time. 

“ I am going to impose a tax on your 
hospitality, Marianne,” said Ernest in his 
calm, quiet voice. One or two of my 
friends are coming South to spend a week 
or so in old Virginia, and I have written 
to them to make Roseville their head- 
quarters. Perhaps I should have told you 
this before.” 

“ Not the slightest necessity, Sir Gala- 
had,” said Marianne gaily. (Sir Gala- 
had was one of her many names for her 
brother.) I have not the faintest objec- 
tion to any number of venerable persons 
coming here, provided you keep them in 
your study and provide them with a large, 
dry book, and talk to them yourself on any 
subject which may interest these ancients ; 
only please excuse me from your de- 
bating societies.” 

Ernest was quite accustomed to her 


8 


LIFE PICTURES. 


saucy tirades against himself, his study, 
and his books, so he only laughed. He 
was a man of very few words, and seldom 
entered into a discussion with any one. 

“ I shall be here, of course, at breakfast, 
luncheon, dinner, and tea ; and if you 
could induce your friends to discuss any- 
thing a little more modern than the ruins 
of ancient Rome, I shall be very much in- 
debted.” 

The smile passed off Ernest’s face. He 
knew that one of his friends, at least, would 
much prefer to chase the butterfly or pass 
the day down among the cabins with his 
little sister than discuss the history of the 
past with him. This bringing two hot- 
headed young people together was a dan- 
gerous proceeding, and he, of all people, 
in such delicate health, was scarcely com- 
petent to keep watch over them. He was 
a little consoled to think that lynx-eyed 
little Mrs. Monroe was hourly expected to 
pay her annual visit to Roseville, and would 
consequently arrive some days in advance 
of his friends. 

“ Perhaps you will see more of my 
friends than you suppose,” said Ernest. 


LIFE PICTURES. 


9 


“ I regret very much not being able to 
show them the beauties of the place 
myself. However, it is impossible. But 
you, Marianne, will have a little society at 
last.” 

“ Thanks,” said Marianne saucily. I 
have all the society I wish, and, in fact, am 
firmly persuaded that old Carlo is worth a 
dozen young men. Ernest, I do not like 
young men.” 

“ Do you not, Marianne ?” he said, laugh- 
ing* outright. “ Why, what an extensive 
experience you have had ! I think Cato 
is one of your principal acquaintances.” 

“ I have met two or three,” said Mari- 
anne solemnly, “and I tell you I do not 
care for them.” 

“ So much the better,” said Ernest. 
“ Carlo is a much safer friend for you. I 
trust you will continue to prefer him. 
There is his voice, by the way.” 

Carlo was indeed barking very loudly 
on the lawn, evidently giving warning of 
some one’s approach. 

“Why, Mrs. Monroe, dear Mrs. Mon- 
roe ! ” said Marianne, springing up, to the 
great peril of the tray, and throwing her 


10 


LIFE PICTURES. 


arms round the neck of a little lady who 
suddenly appeared at the window. 

“ That will do, Maid Marian, that will 
do,” said Mrs. Monroe in a slightly husky 
voice. “ And how are you, Ernest, how 
are you ? ” 

She had a fashion of repeating her words, 
but very often they were worth repeating, 
so no one ever seemed to mind. 

When Ernest had an opportunity, he 
confided to her his fears and vague mis- 
givings concerning Marianne. 

“ This Willie Curtis is really a good- 
hearted, fine fellow,” he said ; “ but if 
Marianne were to fall in love with him — ” 

“ She would probably marry him,” said 
Mrs. Monroe dryly, and be settled for 
life.” 

“ That is just it, my dear Mrs. Monroe ; 
,he is not the man to keep equilibrium in 
that dear little head and heart. I know 
Marianne well, and he would not be suited 
to her; besides, sometimes things go awry 
in these matters, and one loves and the 
other does not, and so mischief is wrought.” 

** And sometimes neither loves,” said 
Mrs. Monroe sententiously — “sometimes 


LIFE PICTURES. 


II 


neither loves, and so our fears are put to 
naught. But what of your other friend ? ” 

“ Oh ! he is out of the question. He is 
grave and staid, a confirmed bachelor, and 
very much of my own tastes.” 

“He is ! Well, take my advice, my dear 
Ernest, and leave Providence to arrange 
these matters. Marianne is a child, a per- 
fect child for her years. She may not care 
for either of these men, though, it is true, 
if they are unsuitable, you are trying a 
dangerous experiment. So we must watch, 
we must watch. When do they arrive ? ” 

“ One of these days,” said Ernest. “ But 
you are right: Providence will take care 
of her future. Let me only play the part 
it has assigned me of watching over the 
dear child, and her temporal, as well as her 
eternal, happiness.” 

“ What is your own future to be ? You 
■ are thirty now, Ernest, and have not so 
very much time to decide.” 

“ My future is in the hands of God,” said 
he cheerfully ; “ why should I be anxious 
concerning it ? ” 

Marianne was out on the lawn a few days 
afterwards kneeling before Carlo, trying to 


12 


LIFE PICTURES. 


make him wear a huge paper cap, which 
contrasted ludicrously with the solemn 
gravity of his canine visage. 

“ Keep it on, sir,” she said ; “ a great 
beast like you ought to be ashamed to be 
so stupid.” 

“ What a pretty child that is!” said a 
gentleman just then approaching to his 
friend, an older and graver man, who ac- 
companied him. ‘‘ I wonder who she is.” 

** 1 have not the slightest idea,” said his 
companion. “ The dog is a fine animal, 
though. How absurd he looks with that 
paper thing on his head ! ” 

“And how absurd you are, talking about 
it so gravely, Brent! You are the most 
serious person ever born,” said Willie Cur- 
tis with a burst of laughter. 

“There, you wicked beast, you have 
thrown it off again,” said Marianne, and 
the Newfoundland tossed his head once or 
twice and looked at her, as if pleading 
against being made ridiculous. 

Curtis, still laughing, came up to her. 

“ My dear child,” said he, “ I do not 
think you will ever induce him to keep it 


LIFE PICTURES. 


13 


Marianne rose to her feet in confusion. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said the younger 
gentleman, somewhat taken aback by his 
mistake, while both uncovered their heads 
and bowed courteously ; “ I was under a 
mistake ; but, if you will be so kind, could 
you tell us if Mr. Travers lives here ? ” 

“Yes,” said Marianne shyly; “and I 
think he is expecting you.” 

“ We have, I presume,” said the elder 
gentleman, “ the honor of addressing Miss 
Travers.” 

She bowed affirmatively. 

“ Permit me, then, to introduce my 
friend, Mr. William Curtis, and myself, 
Arthur Brent, of New York, both very old 
friends of your brother.” 

She bowed again, acknowledging the in- 
troduction, and said half timidly: “You 
are welcome to Virginia and to Roseville. 
But my brother is expecting you. Cato,” 
she called to the gaping negro boy, “ show 
these gentlemen to Mr. Travers’s study.’ 

When they .were gone she chewed the 
cud of bitter reflection. “ How absurd it 
was for them to find me playing with 
Carlo, and calling me dear child ; and 


14 LIFE TICTURES. 

then when, perceiving their mistake, they 
bowed so profoundly, I saw their eyes still 
twinkling with amusement.” 

At dinner she met them and was for- 
mally presented, but in no wise progressed 
towards acquaintance. In fact, it was 
some time before she was on terms of any- 
thing like intimacy with either of them. 
But time weareth away even the rock, and 
her childish timidity gave way to almost 
childish familiarity. Yet, as regarded Wil- 
lie Curtis, Ernest’s fears proved ground- 
less. He admired little Marianne consid- 
erably, and thought her as pretty and 
amusing a little creature as he had ever 
met ; but he was long since bound by the 
iron bonds of love and a long-standing en- 
gagement, and so Marianne was safe, and 
treated him with the careless familiarity of 
a brother or cousin. And Arthur Brent — 
why, he had no ties which irresistibly drew 
his heart northward and homeward, and 
was constantly in the society of a very 
pretty, very bright, very sparkling little 
creature ; and — but we are not telling a 
love tale, nor seeking to disentangle the 
various colored yarns and silken threads by 


LIFE PICTURES. 


15 


which hearts are drawn together and nets 
are woven out of which there is no escape. 
Willie Curtis took notes, and, being pro- 
bably experienced, was quick to observe, 
and no less quick to be amused at, the 
course things were taking, and was fain to 
keep out of their way as much as possible. 
Unobservant Ernest noticed nothing, and 
would have been much puzzled to account 
for his friend’s long absences from the study. 

Meanwhile, Arthur Brent, who had 
never been what is called a pious man, 
simply because religion had been some- 
what crowded out of a busy, energetic life, 
seemed to understand at last that there 
are higher aims in life than wealth, or 
feme, or social eminence. He frequently 
accompanied Marianne even to the early 
Mass on week-day mornings, and invari- 
ably attended her on Sunday afternoons, 
when she went to the little church on the 
plantation to teach catechism to the Ca- 
tholic negroes. He enjoyed seeing her 
seated in authority above the rows of shin- 
ing black faces, her merry face as quiet 
and demure as the Puritan maiden whom 
Miles Standish loved. 


1 6 LIFE PICTURES. 

One Sunday morning she made the two 
men accompany her to gather crimson 
roses, pure white lilies, and pale green 
oleander-leaves, to arrange the church for 
Benediction, which they usually had only 
once a month, so that it was considered a 
gala occasion. In the dim light of the lit- 
tle chapel Marianne flitted round, placing 
clusters of crimson roses on the snowy 
white of the marble altar, and lighting oil 
in dark-red vessels, within which it burned 
like the red fire of sacrifice. The lilies 
were for the Blessed Virgin’s altar, and 
the oleander-leaves she wreathed round 
the picture of the Sacred Heart, and min- 
gled them with bouquets of the golden rod 
and pale-blue asters and forget me-nots. 
Her task ended, she walked home with 
the two gentlemen to luncheon. At six 
they all returned for benediction, and Mari- 
anne went up in the choir to play the 
organ for the children, followed by Arthur 
Brent, whose voice joined with the little 
black folk in the “ O Salutaris,” “ Ave 
Maris Stella,” and “ Tantum Ergo.” The 
window at one end of the choir was open, 
and out and away over the Shenandoah 


LIFE PICTURES. 


17 

floated the hymns’ sweet sounds. When 
the last notes of the “ Laudate Dominum” 
died away, Brent closed the organ for 
Marianne, and after a short prayer both 
went down the choir stairs. In the cool- 
ness of the night, out in the starshine, they 
had to stand a moment waiting for the 
others. Marianne shivered a little, it was 
so cold after the warmth and brightness 
of the church. She wished from her heart 
they would come, for she felt a strange 
shyness overpowering her, thus left alone 
with Arthur Brent. She knew she loved 
him, and she dared not hope that he would 
care for her, a child. She was so evidently 
embarrassed, and so sedulously avoided 
meeting his eyes, that Arthur Brent, an 
experienced man of the world, was invol- 
untarily reading her secret ; this knowledge 
that was coming to him, as surely and 
swiftly as an instinct, made him very hap- 
py. He felt a strong desire to tell her on 
the spot that he loved her, and ask her for 
the precious gift of her first, half-uncon- 
scious affection. This he would certainly 
have done if she had been a few years 
older, a little more experienced in the ways 


i8 


LIFE PICTURES. 


of men, but he knew she was so childish, 
even for her age, that he must approach 
the subject with care and gentleness ; and, 
besides, he felt he owed it to Ernest to 
gain his consent before seriously address- 
ing Marianne. 

Sometimes during the night that follow- 
ed, thinking it all over, doubts began to 
arise. Willie Curtis was younger and 
gayer, and Marianne was not aware of his 
engagement in the North. These doubts 
so much tormented him that he was fain to 
admit that the fever fit was bad, consider- 
ing his age, and felt anxious as soon as 
possible to end all uncertainty. 

Next morning he went to Ernest’s study, 
and plunged at once into the subject of his 
visit. 

“ Will you be surprised to hear, Travers, 
that I have come to see you this morning 
on matrimonial business intent ? The truth 
is, I love your sister, and have come to you 
before addressing her.” 

You love my sister!” said Travers. 
“ Why, it is impossible, she is such a 
child.” 

True, and I am old, in years and in 


LIFE PICTURES. 


19 


feelings ; but I think I can make her happy. 
Are you willing, Travers ?” 

“ Willing ? Why, my dear Brent, I could 
not have dreamed of anything better. You 
are the man I should have chosen for her 
among a thousand.” 

“Thank you, Travers,” said Brent with 
deep feeling. “You know yourself how 
far short most of us fall from being worthy 
of such happiness, but, believe me, I shall 
try to make her happy.” 

“ You say you have not spoken to her 
yet,” said Ernest thoughtfully. “ Do you 
think she loves you ?” 

“ I know you will not misjudge me when 
I say I do,” said Brent ; “ though, indeed, 
I have no other reason for so thinking 
but that which in her childlike fashion 
she betrays herself. However, perhaps it 
would be well, Travers, if you spoke to her 
yourself, and were satisfied as to the true 
state of the case.” 

“ Speak to her yourself, my dear Arthur,” 
said Travers. “ I will leave you the task 
of sounding her little heart. I would be 
unequal to it. But let me wish you every 
success.” 


20 


LIFE PICTURES. 


The two men shook hands warmly, and 
Brent went out and found Marianne with 
the Newfoundland dog at her feet and 
Cato beside her. 

i “ Send Cato away, Miss Travers,” whis- 
pered Brent. ‘‘ I want to speak to you 
alone.” 

When Cato had gone, he looked at 
her attentively for a moment before he 
spoke. 

“ Somehow, Miss Travers,” he said 
slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, 
“ you have changed towards me of late, 
and, as I perceive, have become extremely 
shy of me. What I want to ask you now 
is a reason for this change,” 

Marianne looked at him almost beseech- 
ingly, growing crimson in her confusion, to 
which, however, he paid no heed. 

“ Do you dislike me ?” he asked. 

“ No,” she answered in a rather un- 
steady voice. 

“No? Then what can the reason be? 
Do you like me ?” 

“ Yes,” she said, very low. 

“ Ah ! well, even that is scarcely suffi- 
cient cause for so much reserve. Perhaps 


LIFE PICTURES. 


21 


there is a better one. Do you love me, 
Marianne ? ” 

He bent forward eagerly, a light in his 
grave, dark eyes which had not shone 
there for years. 

No, no,” she said quickly ; “ that is — I 
do not know.” 

“ You do not know, little Marianne ? 
Can you not guess ? Come, tell me, if I 
were to go away and never return to Rose- 
ville again, would you be very sorry?” 

‘‘ I think I would,” she answered softly. 

“ Well, then, if you care to have me 
stay, or at least to return shortly, have 
you not a better answer to my ques- 
tion ? Will you not say, ‘ Arthur, I love 
you ’ ? ” 

She bent down her head in utter confu- 
sion and dire distress. She thought he had 
discovered her secret, and was thus amus- 
ing himself with her childish folly ; be- 
sides, it was utterly impossible : she could 
not say, “ Arthur, I love you.” The tears 
somehow came into her eyes and were 
streaming down her cheeks before she 
knew. 

'' What ! crying ? ” said Brent, in as much 


22 


LIFE PICTURES. 


perplexity as any of his sex in presence of 
such a calamity. “ Why, is it so very hard 
to answer my question? Well, do not 
mind it, then ; only dry your tears and 
listen to what I am about to say.” 

He waited a moment till she had forced 
back her tears, and, having turned her 
curly head away from him, seemed to be 
listening. 

In a few clear, unmistakable words he 
proceeded to tell her of his love, asking 
hers in return, all the time using the ut- 
most caution and a great deal of tact, in 
order that she might not be frightened. 
However, when he had finished, perceiv- 
ing that she was still very much confused 
and disturbed, he thought it better to 
leave her alone for a while. 

“ Think over what I have said a little, 
and tell me what my fate is to be when I 
return,” he said, rising and leaving her to 
her meditations. When he had disap- 
peared, Marianne sank down on the ground 
and flung her arms round big Carlo’s neck, 
sobbing bitterly. The dog seemed to un- 
derstand that his young mistress was in 
grief,, and mutely caressed her, thus show- 


LIFE PICTURES. 


ing to the best of his ability his canine 
sympathy. 

Meanwhile, Arthur Brent was walking 
up and down the lawn, smoking and medi- 
tating deeply. Perhaps, after all, it was 
folly to love a girl so very young. Per- 
haps, after all, it was cruel to break the 
spell which bound her to the fairyland of 
childhood. Perhaps, after all, he should 
leave her to enjoy her girlhood, nor be the 
first to bring her into contact with the 
world and all the stern prose it conceals 
beneath its glitter. But all his reasoning 
resolved itself into the one fact that he 
loved her, and could not do without her. 
Thus it is ever ; the heart cannot be rea- 
soned into any course of action, or, rather, 
it usually forms a code of reasoning for it- 
self. She seemed much older at times, he 
thought, and certainly had a great deal of 
judgment and good sense for her age; 
and, besides, if he was any judge, a resolu- 
tion to leave her as he had found her — a 
child — would come too late, for she loved 
him. 

So he tossed away his cigar and went 
back to her, mentally concluding that it 


24 


LIFE PICTURES. 


would be better for both the sooner they 
came to understand each other. He found 
her sitting in the same place, pale and 
childish-looking, her hands crossed in her 
lap, and her face unusually grave. 

‘‘Marianne,” said he, approaching her, 
“ I want you to be a little more of a 
woman, and tell me frankly and honestly 
if you love me. Do not have any reserve ; 
treat me as if I were an old and intimate 
friend.” 

She looked up at him earnestly, and an- 
swered slowly, the flush coming into her 
face again : 

“ I have been so much ashamed of lov- 
ing you ; and 1 never supposed you could 
care for me, I am so childish, and so very 
different from you. But I know I acted 
very foolishly a moment ago.” 

He sat down beside her and gently took 
her hand. 

“ And so you were afraid to tell me this 
— ashamed of loving me, my dear little 
heart, when I have tried my best, since I 
saw you first, to make you love me.” 

She never quite overcame her shyness 
with him during their courtship, but she 


LIFE PICTURES. 


25 


was perfectly happy and contented, seem- 
ing to revel in the glad sunlight of youth’s 
bright morning, and to count, one by one, 
the matchless colors of the bow of hope 
and promise. 

Thus it came about that the home by 
the swift-flowing Shenandoah was broken 
up, the woof of its household loves 
and hopes and memories so early com- 
pleted, and its loom having grown still, the 
toilers at it called to other fields of labor. 
In October Brent was coming for his bride, 
and these golden summer months were to 
be Marianne’s last in the sunny South. 
Happily enough they flitted by in the 
bustle of preparation, as well as in long, 
farewell strolls, on Marianne’s part, to every 
nook and glade and mossy dell on the old 
plantation, and far beyond its extremest 
limits. Carlo was her faithful attendant, 
and Cato, or some of the negro boys round 
the place, usually accompanied her for 
greater security. Worthy Mrs. Monroe 
was in a perfect flutter — a state of being 
rather unusual with her. In the first place, 
she had been sounding, “ I told you so,” 
in their ears ever since Marianne’s engage- 


26 


LIFE PICTURES. 


ment had been announced. To the very- 
last she invariably declared that, from the 
Very moment Ernest spoke of his older and 
l^raver friend, a sort of presentiment had 
come over her. 

Marianne still made frequent visits to 
the cabins, especially to that one occupied 
by her old nurse, Aunt ’Lisbeth. The ca- 
bins were dispersed among various clumps 
of beech and cedar trees, to which the 
softer fringe-trees and the graceful syca- 
mores lent variety. The air was always 
heavy, in the spring and early .summer, 
with the over-weighted lilac-bushes grow- 
ing all around. Here in the summer twi- 
lights the negroes, resting from their toils, 
sat at their doors, the younger folks gather- 
ing in careless groups on the greensward 
in front of the cabins, singing, playing on 
the banjo, or talking noisily in their peciu 
liar speech, which is almost a dialect. The 
colored handkerchiefs wound round the 
heads of the women, their gaudy garments, 
and the red shirts of the men, combined 
with the luxuriant vegetation around them, 
palms and other foreign-looking trees wav- 
ing over their heads, gave the scene a 


LIFE PICTURES. 


27 


peculiarly Oriental character; or when, 
after the darkness had come, the firelight 
from the interior of the cabins shone out 
under the trees, and produced the effect 
which one of our national poets, in accor- 
dance with a popular superstition, calls 
“ the witches making tea,” there was a 
singular charm and, to Northern eyes, pe- 
culiar novelty in the scene which it would 
be impossible to describe. 

Aunt 'Lisbeth had agreed to accompany 
Marianne to the North, and therefore be- 
came very much excited when the subject 
of her approaching departure was broached. 
Between Marianne and herself there ex- 
isted an affection almost as great as that 
between mother and daughter. She was 
really a good old soul, her shining ebony 
face a sure index to her honesty and ster- 
ling worth. 

Time, flower-strewn, passed very rapidly, 
and as the days went on Ernest observed 
that her engagement seemed to have trans- 
formed Marianne from a child to a woman. 
Brent was expected a week or ten days 
previous to the wedding, so on the eve- 
ning before his arrival Ernest and Mari- 


28 


LIFE PICTURES. 


anne sat in the study, and, as it was full 
moon, they had no light in the room. 

Marianne,” said Ernest, “ come and sit 
here at my feet, and let us talk.” 

She obeyed, and he continued : 

“You know, child, it is the last time we 
shall ever be here alone together, and 
we have been happy, have we not, Mari- 
anne? ” 

He laid his hand on her head and stroked 
it gently. 

“ Oh ! yes, Ernest,” she said ; “ I have 
been so very happy here with you that 
even now I can scarcely bear the thought 
of going away. But we shall be often 
with you, Ernest; and you with us, will 
you not?” 

“I fear not, dear. You must give me 
up, but you will have your husband in- 
stead — kind, true, and affectionate, I trust ; 
in fact, Marianne, there is no other man to 
whom I could so cheerfully entrust your 
future. But there is something I want 
to tell you this last night of our old life. 
Now that you are well provided for, my 
task is over. I have endeavored to take the 
place of those dear ones we have lost, and be 


LIFE PICTURES. 


29 


to you what they would have been had 
they lived, and with God’s help I should 
never have left my post nor given up my 
guardianship of you, did not he, in his 
wisdom, send one worthy to take my place. 
It has long been my intention, dear child, 
to leave the world, and enter the Society of 
Jesus; and my task, as I say, being done, 
that great desire of my life will be accom- 
plished.” 

Marianne buried her face in her hands, 
and resting her head on her brother’s knee, 
sobbed aloud. 

“ My dear, dear child, my little sister, 
do not cry. It is God’s will, and it will 
make me very happy.” 

After a while she became more com- 
posed, and looked up into his face with a 
sort of reverence. In the moonlight which 
was streaming in and flooding all the room, 
and playing at cross purposes with the 
dark carpet, Ernest looked even more than 
usually spirituelle^ with a calmness and 
serenity upon his face which resembled the 
soothing quiet of the moonlight falling 
upon the earth. She thought it very hard 
to give him up, to bow in submission 


30 


LIFE PICTURES. 


to that divine call which had found him so 
willing, and almost felt as if she could 
better have relinquished her lover and her 
hopes of future happiness, if only Ernest 
could remain, and she with him, in their 
happy Southern home. 

The moonlight was abroad over the 
Shenandoah valley, on the dark, rapidly- 
rolling river, climbing again to the tranquil 
heavens over the crags and steeps of the 
huge, silent mountains, that stood like 
eternal monuments, like pillars supporting 
the great dome of the earth. From the win- 
dow where the brother and sister sat they 
could see the picture with which from 
childhood they had been familiar. The 
air was very still, for even the night-birds 
were at rest, and the river was winding on 
calmly and noiselessly as time itself. A 
busy insect or two whom the darkness 
had not driven homeward continued their 
labor, weaving their little part in the great 
loom of the universe, at which so many 
workers, from the man of giant intellect 
to the ant at its petty toil, are constantly 
employed. 

“ How still the night is, Marianne,” said 


LIFE PICTURES. 


31 


Ernest — “ still and beautiful, this last night 
we two, alone together, shall spend on 
earth ! ” 

“ Ernest, do not make our parting seem 
so very near. Shall I not be here another 
week or more ? " 

“ But there will be some one else to 
claim your attention. For the very last 
time, my sister, as in the olden days, I 
shall be your only love. It is a great 
sacrifice to give you up, Marianne, but we 
can still love each other, though we shall 
not be together any more.” 

“ Do not speak of it, Ernest. I will try 
to be reconciled and to remember that 
God’s holy will must be obeyed, but I can- 
not just yet.” 

“ Well, we will not speak of it, dear. 
Only I wished you to know before Arthur 
came. I wanted this sorrow to have passed 
away somewhat before your wedding-day. 
You will be very happy, I trust, Marianne, 
and will daily learn to love God better. 
You must pray a great deal after I am gone 
for me, for yourself, and for your husband.” 

He paused a few moments, and contin- 
ued : 


32 


LIFE PICTURES. 


“ I need not give you any counsel, for I 
feel you will try to do what is right ; but 
you and I, dear sister, are on the verge of 
very solemn steps, each entering on the 
new way of life to which it has pleased 
God to call us. We cannot turn back; we 
have the future before us, but the past is 
over for us, and we must not spend time 
in useless regret. But pray for us all, that 
the will of God may be accomplished in 
us.” 

Marianne felt, as she sat thus at her 
brother’s feet, that, come what might, she 
was prepared at least to do her utmost, so 
that in the less perfect life to which she 
was called she might, in some measure, 
imitate that brother who, in “ the knightly 
company,” was about taking up his cross. 

“ How lovely the Shenandoah looks to- , 
night!” said Ernest; “and where the Po- 
tomac joins it, the moon is forming a bridge 
of silver. Is there anything in nature so 
suggestive of heaven as moonlight, except, 
perhaps, a great cathedral during High 
Mass or Benediction?” 

“ No, I do not think there is,” said 
Marianne. “ We could imagine moon- 


LIFE PICTURES. 


33 


light the silver sheen of angels’ wings, if 
we did not see the great white planet 
sailing among the clouds, like a lonely 
spirit in a frail bark on a shoreless sea.” 

‘‘ A beautiful idea,” said Ernest ; “ but 
I have observed your thoughts on nature 
usually are. We have loved it very much, 
have we not ? — that great, far-reaching; 
boundless manifestation of the Creator’s 
love. How good it is to know that every- 
thing in nature is from our Father’s hand.” 

They conversed thus for some time ; 
their natures were so much akin, or rather 
hers, the narrower, less exalted one, caught, 
as it were, a reflection from his when they 
were together that expanded and bright- 
ened it into kinship with his own. 

Mr. Brent arrived next day, and Ernest 
found his words prophetic, for he saw very 
little of Marianne thenceforward, much as 
she might have wished it otherwise. A 
day or two before the wedding she and 
Arthur went for a stroll along the river- 
bank. The foliage of the trees and shrub- 
bery was turning russet-brown, and the 
forests and wooded hill-sides were tinged 
with the autumn. It was plainly to be seen 


34 


LIFE PICTURES.. 


that summer, like the red man, was turn- 
ing her face towards the setting sun and 
bidding farewell to all her fair dominions. 
The fringe-tree and the pale, feathery 
green of the white pine Avere bending low 
above their heads, while, on the mantled 
hill-tops beyond, the maple glowed deep 
crimson with the hectic flush of the year’s 
decay. The cedar and the sycamore 
waved in half-languid melancholy, and the 
beech and elm nodded towards the hills 
and rivers, muttering, like ancient wizards, 
many-voiced spells and incantations, while 
the oaks, despairing at the departure of 
summer, cast upon the ground their leafy 
garments. The golden-rod skirted the 
shore, the aster and pale hyacinth and 
monumental passion-flower bent towards 
the bank in pensive melancholy. The spell 
of some sorrow, a suppressed wail of la- 
mentation for the approaching death of 
nature, was abroad on the breeze, pervad- 
ing the air and murmuring among the 
trees, and even resting concealed in the 
hidden heart of the little flowers like 
whom was not “ Solomon in all his glory.” 

The sky was pure amber, flecked with 


LIFE PICTURES. 


35 


tiny purple clouds, like barks set adrift 
upon the waters ; underlying the horizon 
was a line of deep crimson, which sent up 
a faint pink reflection, softening into pearl. 
The lemon-trees embalmed the air with 
sweet perfume ; the palms stood in Ori- 
ental grace, beautifying the landscape as 
they beautify the shaded streets of that 
fated city over which Jesus wept ; the 
coffee plantations were snow-white with 
thick, clustering blossoms ; and the har- 
vests of golden grain, ready for the reaper’s 
sickle, mingled with the spear-like stalks of 
the sugar-cane and the feathery whiteness 
of the cotton-bloom. Even the lovers 
scarcely spoke as they walked quietly on 
by the river-side; only, once, Marianne 
pointed out a boat lying at anchor in the 
river, which the sun had turned into chang- 
ing colors like mother-of-pearl. They 
were happy in each other’s society, content 
to know that their love was as true and 
lasting as human love could be, and words 
are so little needed when hearts are at peace. 
It is only in the feverish time of uncertainty 
that a want is felt to speak at all hazards, 
and assure each other of the truth. 


3 ^ 


LIFE PICTURES. 


The red robin was singing merrily, and 
afar the quail’s shrill whistle and the wood- 
pecker’s loud tapping disturbed the quiet, 
while, over and above all, the mocking- 
bird, catching a few wild notes from each 
forest bird, chanted them all in a strain of 
wild melody ; the cat-bird screamed harshly, 
and the whip-poor-will sang his sad com- 
plaint. Bright-eyed humming-birds dart- 
ed across their path, the katydids kept up 
their chorus of contradiction, interrupting 
each other constantly, and the locusts hum- 
med on in a careless monotone, of which 
they never wearied. 

Passing over a few days, we reach the 
final moment of departure, when the 
household gods were to be abandoned, 
the hearth-fire extinguished, the links in 
the chain of home memories broken, the 
ties one by one severed, and the home in 
the Shenandoah valley deserted. The 
rivers still met and flowed calmly and har- 
moniously, with no jarring discords ; the 
Virginian mountains and the forest-man- 
tled shores remained ; but Ernest Travers 
knew that he, in all human probability, 
once departed thence, should never see 


LIFE PICTURES. 


37 


again that beauteous Southern landscape. 
However, he was to remain a week or two 
after the young couple departed, to give 
the home into the new tenant’s hands. 
The parting between Ernest and his sister 
was very sad. He bade her God-speed in 
the sweet “ Moon of Leaves ” at the be- 
ginning of her new life. Her heart was 
filled with deep and yearning sadness now 
that she must leave the sunny, smiling 
South and the rich harvest-fields of her 
native Virginia, but this sorrow seemed so 
trivial when the moment came to part with 
Ernest, and leave him for ever with all the 
beautiful past. 

The steamer which bore Arthur Brent 
homeward and Marianne away from the 
past, sailed up and along the grand old 
Potomac. Aunt ’Lisbeth was with them, 
and Marianne had permitted her to sit on 
deck and see the sights along the river. 
The evening after their departure the 
October moon had risen in the tranquil 
heavens, and showed them, as they passed, 
each separate and familiar scene. The air 
was very still and serene, and they could 
hear from the shore the wild birds home- 


38 


, LIFE PICTURES. 


ward from the forest flying, and the little 
nightingale singing her song of peace. 
Marianne was so sad and her heart so op- 
pressed that she felt it impossible to speak. 

Suddenly, as they passed a beautiful 
plantation where a dark mass of trees 
with sombre foliage were touched with 
silver by the fair and queenly moon, and 
the fields of ripened grain stood dark and 
silent along the solemn shore, the maize 
plumes waving in the evening wind, a 
sound of voices reached them, the stream- 
ing moonlight seeming to bear it thither 
on its shining ripples. A chorus of ne- 
groes were singing by the light of the 
full moon their songs, in the gayest of 
which runs that strain of mournful melody 
that always makes the music of an op- 
pressed people the wildest and the 
sweetest. “ In de sweet by-an’-by ” fell 
the voices upon their ears, through the far 
stilly night, through its moonlight white- 
ness, mingling with the cry of the whip- 
poor-will, plaintively mourning, heedless of 
music and the beauty of the night — 

“ In (le sweet by-an’-by, in de sweet by-an’-by, 

When we meet on dat beautiful shore.” 


LIFE PICTURES. 


39 


Old Aunt ’Lisbetli was weeping softly ; 
memory was busy with her, and already her 
poorold tired heart was longing for the peace 
and rest of that beautiful shore, where 
no partings ever come, the true native 
land which all at last shall unite in loving, 
and where alone there shall be no exiles. 
The steamer paused not in its rapid course, 
and the sound grew fainter and fainter up 
the golden river, golden with the moon’s 
bright shower of gold, and all the air grew 
still again, save a faint, far distant echo of 
the last words of the song, which died 
away, away in the distance until the silence 
was again unbroken, for even the very wind 
was still, no longer murmuring of its cease- 
less roamings over the wide, wide world ; 
for a very Wandering Jew is the wind, 
never knowing rest on earth, but journey- 
ing disconsolately over the world’s darkest 
and loneliest regions, penetrating into hid- 
den nooks which nature fain would keep 
concealed from every eye, and, coming 
thence, moans of their dreariness. 

Somewhat further up, though, they heard 
another chorus of voices singing the beau- 
tiful weird hymn, in the quaint and simple 


40 


LIFE PICTURES. 


negro speech, “ Bright Sparkles in the 
Churchyard." The boat lay at anchor near 
by, and they heard them sing many of 
their sweet old songs, every one of which 
Marianne knew by heart — “ Peter, go and 
Ring dem Bells," Old Sheep dunno de 
Road," and many other plaintive melodies 
in which these poor souls, with their 
solemn, dark faces, seek to communicate 
with God their Saviour. 

Marianne was almost glad when, about 
noon of the next day, they found them- 
selves out of the region of memory. Every 
movement of the boat had seemed to 
wring her heart, her heart and that of her 
poor old negro nurse, mourning for the 
cabin near the grove and her stalwart boys, 
whom in some “sweet by-and-by" she 
might meet again. 

After they had passed the familiar places, 
and during the conclusion of their journey, 
which was by rail, Marianne felt as if she 
had passed into the realm of hope, jour- 
neying towards the promised land of a 
happy future. Her heart became more 
contented and at peace, and even her se- 
verest trial, Ernest’s departure, grew soft- 


LIFE PICTURES. 


41 


ened in her mind by distance. He was 
coming to New York to spend a day or 
two with them before he sailed for Europe, 
where he intended to begin his studies ; and 
if, in the providence of God, she saw him 
thereafter no more till that “sweet by-and- 
by,” he, meantime, working in the har- 
vest, where laborers are so few, would 
gather the ripe golden grain of new and 
fervent souls, casting aside the chaff that 
choked their growth, in the vineyards and 
grain-fields of the Church of God. 

Meanwhile, the young couple took pos- 
session of their home, where wealth was 
everywhere evident. Marianne almost re- 
gretted how completely everything seemed 
ready to her hand ; no little finishing 
touches to be put, no well-rewarded efforts 
to repair time’s destructive handiwork. 
Her parlors were furnished in the faintest 
of pearl-gray strewn with roses, her lam- 
brequins an exact match, her curtains of 
the finest and most fairy-like lace, her mir- 
rors, her bronzes, her statues, even to her 
griffins, each and all were in their proper 
place and her pictures, ah ! there was de- 
light there was pleasure that only wealth 


42 


LIFE PICTURES. 


could give. Her husband possessed what 
is, perhaps, more rare than wealth, a cul- 
tured taste for art, and hence had pur- 
chased some exquisite productions of his 
native land, which in these beautiful draw- 
ing-rooms were intermingled with the crea- 
tions of some master artists of the older 
world — 2. genre picture of a Dutch interior, 
where flat Dutch faces, seen in the firelight, 
plainly declared it the work of Adrian van 
Ostade ; close beside it was a marine view 
of Gifford, whose touch, like the sun’s, 
casts such a golden haze over the water. A 
Meyer von Bremen and his sweet child 
faces hung near a charrning landscape by 
Eastman Johnson and a portrait by the 
American Reynolds, Huntington. A Meis- 
sonier, though placed in a most favorable 
light, did not in the least eclipse a recent 
creation of his talented pupil, Gerome ; 
and so on through the list. Marianne 
counted these her rarest delights, studied 
them at every distance and in every light ; 
observed the light and shade, the expres- 
sion of the faces, the foreshortening of the 
figure, the coloring of the whole, or some 
particular effect or masterly touch in 


LIFE PICTURES. 


43 


which one or the other excelled, and to 
which her attention was called by her hus- 
band, whose taste and knowledge of art 
had been sedulously cultivated during his 
residence abroad. The conservatory open- 
ed not from the parlors, which occupied 
one entire side of the house, but from the 
dining-room, that divided the opposite 
side with the library. This latter room was 
a model of taste, the book-cases low and 
covered with red silk draperies, which 
protected the books from even a shadow 
of dust, window-curtains dark crimson to 
match the carpet, just flecked with deep red 
on a pearl ground, the andirons in the open 
fire-place supporting burning logs, though 
it was only the late October. On the floor 
above, Marianne’s room led through her 
dressing-room to a boudoir, which in turn 
connected with her oratory. The walls of 
this little nook were tinted pink, its win- 
dows curtained to keep out the too ga- 
rish rays of the mid-day sun. A tiny lamp 
burned day and night before a marble statue 
of the Blessed Virgin ; a painting or two 
of some sacred subject gave warm, rich 
coloring to the walls, and every day fresh 


44 


LIFE PICTURES. 


flowers stood in elegant profusion around 
the statue. 

Marianne’s boudoir was furnished com> 
pleteiy in pink, and looked fresh and sweet 
and delicate as early June roses. Here she 
sat most of her time, always busy work- 
ing for the poor, or on beautiful vestments 
for poor churches. She never permitted a 
moment to pass in idleness, never a day 
without some good work to mark it. Fre- 
quently, accompanied by her maid, she 
visited the poor, penetrating into the 
darkest and dingiest and most revolting 
places, where sun and air are unknown, 
and the sacred name of God, or that other 
Name at which every knee shall bow, were 
never heard. Day and night Marianne 
devised new works, her husband always 
willing, always cheerfully assenting, always 
aiding her by every means in his power. 
At twilight every evening she knelt and 
said her Rosary on the pric-dieu in the 
oratory, old Aunt ’Lisbeth always accom- 
panying her. Poor old Aunt ’Lisbeth 
was yearning still for the beechen-trees, 
still for the old plantation, still for the 
golden maize and the cotton and the 


LIFE PICTURES. 


45 


sugar-cane, still for the sturdy boys, whose 
black, shining faces were fairer to her ma- 
ternal eyes than the whitest and most beau- 
tiful in all the wide, wide world. 

“Yes, honey,” she said to Marianne, 
“ I’se alus a-hankerin’ after de ole spot 
and dem boys. Dey’re all ’spersed now. I’m 
tole — sold off round de oder States. Well, 
honey, we’ll jus’ wait, and meet some day 
on dat Oder shore, as de song tells us.” 

“You must not grieve so for them,” said 
Marianne. “ I am sure they are happy, 
and you must be happy too. Dear Aunt 
’Lisbeth, it would pain me very much if I 
thought you were fretting over the past.” 

In the evening, when she repeated the 
conversation to her husband, he drew her 
over tenderly to his side. 

“ Are you very sure my Marianne is not 
hankering a little after that same old plan- 
tation under the warm Southern sun ? Are 
you perfectly happy here, dear ? ” 

Just a little shadow of sadness fell on 
the brightness of her face, but she an- 
swered : 

“ I should be very ungrateful indeed, if 
I were not happy in this beautiful home 


46 


LIFE PICTURES. 


with you ; but sometimes I do feel just a 
little sad when I think of home and Er- 
nest.” 

Ernest spent a week with them in their 
beautiful earthly paradise, and one of the 
first stings of the serpent sorrow was 
Marianne’s final parting with her brother, 
to her the embodiment of gentleness, cour- 
tesy, and true affection. The picture of 
their last farewell is one too sacred for any 
eye to gaze upon. The wishes he formed 
for her, the counsels he gave her, the mu- 
tual promises of prayer, the hope expressed 
of meeting here or in the life to come, 
could not be expressed by tongue or pen. 

When he had gone, she turned solely 
and entirely to her husband, his the one 
heart left her to which she could cling 
with absolute, trusting dependence. Their 
lives thereafter flowed on calmly, drifting, 
like the rivers near her early home, quietly 
and tranquilly on towards the great ocean. 
Their hopes, their pleasures, and their hap- 
piness alike centred in each other, so to 
remain until death did them part. 

One more picture and we have done. 
In an old, stately manor-house, once the 


LIFE PICTURES. 


47 


possession of a peer of the British realm, 
where grand old trees guard it closely, 
bending and waving and combating all day 
long with the obtrusive sunlight ; where 
high walls shut in the spot from the bust- 
ling world ; where peace has full sway, and 
love, the love of the Eternal, reigns the 
genius of the place ; where the lordly halls 
and long, stately corridors are subdued 
to monastic simplicity, and the very atmo- 
sphere breathes only the spirit of prayer, 
Ernest Travers, the novice, had made his 
home. His appearance was little changed 
by the priestly garb — a long, black cassock 
and rosary — only his face had grown even 
calmer, more spiritiielle ^ and holier in this 
restful spot. Here he toiled in the garden 
among the flowers, fruits, or vegetables, 
or at whatever manual labor the spirit of 
his rule required, and rose at the Matin 
bell from his hard couch of straw, or 
assisted at the divine office in the con- 
vent church during various 'parts of the 
day. He had thus passed into “ the silent 
life of prayer,” the world forgetting, by 
the world forgot ” ; ordering his daily life 
by the motto of sacrifice, “ Short the suf- 


48 


LIFE riCTURES. 


fering, eternal the reward ’’ ; casting each 
moment of the day and each hour of his 
life into the crucible wherein he had found 
the true philosopher’s stone, over which 
wise men of the past have labored and 
pondered in the gloom of their laborato- 
ries, lit only by the fire of their chemical 
experiments — the true philosopher’s stone 
that turns all things into everlasting gold, 
** Ad 7najorem Dei gloriainy * 

* The motto of the Jesuits— “ For the greater glory 
of God.”. 


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